I’m a pretty experienced traveler.
I’ve sailed along Australia's Great Barrier Reef, snorkeled with giant manta rays in Fiji , hiked through the Amazon jungle in Venezuela , climbed in the Swiss Alps, and ridden a camel into the Sahara at sunset to camp in the desert. I love seeing new places and racking up new experiences like notches on my bedpost.
So now I have to confess that I am completely, utterly terrified of traveling to New York City next week for the national convention of Romance Writers of America.
I’m not sure what’s got me so freaked out. Probably a combination of things ranging from my general social awkwardness (the sort that causes me to spit gristle in strangers' purses) to the fact that I have no idea what to wear to a dinner when the invitation includes the phrase, “the limo will pick you up at...”
My only visit to New York consisted of a night spent sleeping on the floor of the JFK Airport in a skirt while blazing with fever from a weird bug I’d just picked up in Morocco. While I’ve certainly spent time in larger cities, there’s something about the idea of this city that terrifies the holy living hell out of me.
Then there’s the fact that I’m a serious, serious introvert. People tend to assume introvert is a synonym for “shy,” which I can promise you is not the case. While I'm capable of being bubbly and outgoing in large groups of strangers, I get my energy from being alone. My fear is that after two days in New York, I’ll be so over-stimulated by human interaction that I’ll end up spending the rest of the week hiding under the bed with my hands over my ears humming Motley Crue's, “Home Sweet Home.”
Fortunately, I have a close girlfriend with a designer handbag boutique and a finely-tuned fashion sense that extends beyond knowing which yoga pants pair best with the mustard-stained t-shirt. I’m bribing her with wine to come over tonight and go through my closet so she can tell me what to wear, what not to wear, and what to burn in my backyard barbecue pit before anyone realizes I actually own something that ugly.
So that helps.
But I’m still freaked. I haven’t had time yet to research the logistics of finding my way from the Newark airport to the Marriott Marquis hotel at 5:30 on a Monday morning, nor have I explored options from getting from there to La Guardia when I head home Saturday.
Hell, for that matter, I’m not even sure how I’m getting from my house to the airport for my 1:30 departure on Sunday afternoon.
I know I need to just chill out. Everything will be fine. I will likely not get lost or mugged or overwhelmed with the sudden urge to climb topless onto a table at an awards banquet and do a finger puppet routine.
Actually, I make no promises on that last one.
But there are some things I’m REALLY looking forward to. For one, I’ll be rooming with uber-cool author pals Jeffe Kennedy (who I’ve never actually met in person but feel like I’ve known for years) and Marcella Bernard (who you may recall came to my rescue when I got a flat tire en route to a conference in Seattle last fall).
For another, I’ll finally, FINALLY get to meet my amazing agent in person. I’ve been represented by Michelle Wolfson for 3.5 years, so it’s about damn time I bought her a drink. Or twelve.
And then I’ll get to meet all the Sourcebooks people, including my editor, Deb Werksman, and all the cool publicity and production people and...
Holy crap. That's a lot of people. I think I need to lie down now.
For those of you who've been to New York (or those who've been to big-ass conferences like this) do you have any tips for me? For my fellow introverts, do you have any tricks for handling extended periods of being "on" in settings like this? Please share. I need all the help I can get!
Showing posts with label Conferences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Conferences. Show all posts
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Friday, October 8, 2010
Shocking truths about editors and agents
I have a few things to share that might totally rock your world. You’d probably better sit down.
Ready? OK.
Shocking fact #1: At the writers’ conference I attended last weekend, I saw an editor take the elevator upstairs to her room. She did not fly there, nor did she head below ground to the basement to sleep in a cocoon of her own wings.
Shocking fact #2: I had dinner with an agent and she did not bite heads off bats or kill our waiter and suck his brains out through his ear. She ate salad – spinach and goat cheese, to be precise.
Shocking fact #3: I saw an editor go into the ladies' room. While I didn’t peer under the stall to confirm this, I’m fairly certain she was taking care of a basic biological human need.
From these facts, we can draw a startling conclusion – editors and agents are human.
But seeing the terror in the eyes of authors lined up to pitch last weekend, you would have thought they were all being covered in peanut butter and marched into a pit of starving vampire mice.
I know I speak from the position of already having an amazing agent and a fabulous editor. Hell, it was only eight months ago the aforementioned agent had to talk me off the ledge before my first phone call with the aforementioned editor. Believe me, I understand the terror.
But I guess I’m thinking about this because of something that happened last weekend.
I was herded into a pitch session with a pack of other authors, all of whom immediately grabbed seats on the opposite side of the table from the editor. I looked at the empty chairs beside the editor and thought, “that looks lonely.”
I also thought maybe she had a communicable disease the other authors knew about and I’d somehow missed the memo, but I took my chances and took the chair next to her anyway.
She looked at me in surprise, then smiled – a genuine, warm smile. “Thanks for sitting by me.”
Then we braided each other’s hair and had a pillow fight.
OK, maybe that part didn’t happen. My point though, is that authors can get so worked up by fear and respect for agents and editors that we widen the chasm between "us" and "them." While it’s true the balance of power can feel skewed, the bottom line is that we’re all people. We all have families and friends, food cravings and bathroom breaks.
And we’re all united by the same goal – to make our books great and get them into readers’ hands.
I know that perspective is one I’ll carry with me as I move forward with my writing career. Who knows, maybe I’ll even stop hyperventilating when I see my editor’s name in my email inbox.
Do you fight terror when you write query letters or pitch at conferences? Do you sometimes suspect editors and agents are all otherworldly beings? Please share, I’d love to hear your experiences.
Oh, and for the record, you know that old trick about picturing people in their underwear so you’re less nervous? Don’t do it when you’re sitting beside an editor. I’m just saying.
Ready? OK.
Shocking fact #1: At the writers’ conference I attended last weekend, I saw an editor take the elevator upstairs to her room. She did not fly there, nor did she head below ground to the basement to sleep in a cocoon of her own wings.
Shocking fact #2: I had dinner with an agent and she did not bite heads off bats or kill our waiter and suck his brains out through his ear. She ate salad – spinach and goat cheese, to be precise.
Shocking fact #3: I saw an editor go into the ladies' room. While I didn’t peer under the stall to confirm this, I’m fairly certain she was taking care of a basic biological human need.
From these facts, we can draw a startling conclusion – editors and agents are human.
But seeing the terror in the eyes of authors lined up to pitch last weekend, you would have thought they were all being covered in peanut butter and marched into a pit of starving vampire mice.
I know I speak from the position of already having an amazing agent and a fabulous editor. Hell, it was only eight months ago the aforementioned agent had to talk me off the ledge before my first phone call with the aforementioned editor. Believe me, I understand the terror.
But I guess I’m thinking about this because of something that happened last weekend.
I was herded into a pitch session with a pack of other authors, all of whom immediately grabbed seats on the opposite side of the table from the editor. I looked at the empty chairs beside the editor and thought, “that looks lonely.”
I also thought maybe she had a communicable disease the other authors knew about and I’d somehow missed the memo, but I took my chances and took the chair next to her anyway.
She looked at me in surprise, then smiled – a genuine, warm smile. “Thanks for sitting by me.”
Then we braided each other’s hair and had a pillow fight.
OK, maybe that part didn’t happen. My point though, is that authors can get so worked up by fear and respect for agents and editors that we widen the chasm between "us" and "them." While it’s true the balance of power can feel skewed, the bottom line is that we’re all people. We all have families and friends, food cravings and bathroom breaks.
And we’re all united by the same goal – to make our books great and get them into readers’ hands.
I know that perspective is one I’ll carry with me as I move forward with my writing career. Who knows, maybe I’ll even stop hyperventilating when I see my editor’s name in my email inbox.
Do you fight terror when you write query letters or pitch at conferences? Do you sometimes suspect editors and agents are all otherworldly beings? Please share, I’d love to hear your experiences.
Oh, and for the record, you know that old trick about picturing people in their underwear so you’re less nervous? Don’t do it when you’re sitting beside an editor. I’m just saying.
Just a reminder, it's my day to blog at The Debutante Ball.
We're talking about change, so stop by and visit!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Dead plants aren't always dead
When I left town last Wednesday for the Emerald City Writers’ Conference, I wrote detailed note for the pet-sitter. I covered everything from the dogs’ exercise habits to the location of the frozen blood worms for the eel.
But one thing I neglected to request is that someone – anyone – water the basil on my desk.
This is what I found when I returned on Monday:
I took one look at it and knew it was a goner. The leaves were crispy, and the stems drooped like braless D-cups.
Still, I had some water left in my Nalgene bottle from the drive, so I halfheartedly dumped it in knowing full well I’d be throwing the thing in the garbage and holding a basil funeral the next day.
But when I woke up in the morning, here’s what greeted me on my desk:
Less than 24 hours had passed, and the basil was magically resurrected. Well, it's not perfect. The leaves are still a little limp in some spots, and it could use a good pruning.
But I’m glad I didn’t toss it in the trash.
It made me think of a conversation that’s been taking place in the discussion forums for writers in Lani Diane Rich’s online revision class. Many are discovering they need to hack out entire scenes and rewrite fresh ones to make their stories stronger.
A newer author recently asked whether she should scrap the dead scenes altogether or keep them somehow. Several of us who’ve been there before suggested she save everything in an old draft while creating a new one to incorporate changes.
That’s always been my preferred method. Many times I’ve written a scene and realized later it just wasn’t right. Though the temptation is great to just hit the delete key, I never do it – not permanently anyway.
I’m a fan of creating a new version of a manuscript every time I open it to make changes. I use the date in the file name for each new version, giving myself the option of going back to those earlier versions in case I wake up one morning shrieking, “Noooo! Give me back my scene with the hubcap and the chocolate frosting!”
I’m not saying there aren’t times when those old scenes really do need to land in the trash pile and stay there. I’m just suggesting it’s smart to give yourself the option to go back and salvage or simply learn from them when you return for another look someday.
Are you trigger happy on the delete key when it comes to edits, or do you save old drafts in hopes of making them new again someday? Please share in the comments.
Either that, or come on over for dinner. I’ll be making a lovely caprese salad with my resurrected basil.
But one thing I neglected to request is that someone – anyone – water the basil on my desk.
This is what I found when I returned on Monday:
I took one look at it and knew it was a goner. The leaves were crispy, and the stems drooped like braless D-cups.Still, I had some water left in my Nalgene bottle from the drive, so I halfheartedly dumped it in knowing full well I’d be throwing the thing in the garbage and holding a basil funeral the next day.
But when I woke up in the morning, here’s what greeted me on my desk:
Less than 24 hours had passed, and the basil was magically resurrected. Well, it's not perfect. The leaves are still a little limp in some spots, and it could use a good pruning.But I’m glad I didn’t toss it in the trash.
It made me think of a conversation that’s been taking place in the discussion forums for writers in Lani Diane Rich’s online revision class. Many are discovering they need to hack out entire scenes and rewrite fresh ones to make their stories stronger.
A newer author recently asked whether she should scrap the dead scenes altogether or keep them somehow. Several of us who’ve been there before suggested she save everything in an old draft while creating a new one to incorporate changes.
That’s always been my preferred method. Many times I’ve written a scene and realized later it just wasn’t right. Though the temptation is great to just hit the delete key, I never do it – not permanently anyway.
I’m a fan of creating a new version of a manuscript every time I open it to make changes. I use the date in the file name for each new version, giving myself the option of going back to those earlier versions in case I wake up one morning shrieking, “Noooo! Give me back my scene with the hubcap and the chocolate frosting!”
I’m not saying there aren’t times when those old scenes really do need to land in the trash pile and stay there. I’m just suggesting it’s smart to give yourself the option to go back and salvage or simply learn from them when you return for another look someday.
Are you trigger happy on the delete key when it comes to edits, or do you save old drafts in hopes of making them new again someday? Please share in the comments.
Either that, or come on over for dinner. I’ll be making a lovely caprese salad with my resurrected basil.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Getting nailed in Seattle
During a routine conversation at the Emerald City Writers’ Conference, someone asked me what I write.
“Romantic comedy,” I replied, preparing to ask her the same question while assessing her attire to see if I could guess on my own.
Before I could ask, she gave me an incredulous look. “Romantic comedy? Why?”
I’m not sure if it was a comment on the volatility of that sub-genre or the fact that I hadn’t managed to say anything hysterical in the eight seconds we’d known each other.
Either way, I thought about the nail.
If you read the blog on Friday, you know I got a flat tire on my journey to the conference. I discovered it just after I arrived in Issaquah, WA for a “librarian speed dating” event. Though I’ve never been to Issaquah and found it to be a lovely town, I wasn’t keen on roaming it on foot to search for the event location.
A smart person would have assessed the tire damage and contacted a repair professional.
I made jokes on Twitter.
Then I called Pythagoras and described the tire’s condition in a conversation that may have included the phrase “flaccid manhood.”
Don’t get me wrong – there was some crying and cursing, and the obvious panic about whether I was going to have to turn tricks in the hotel parking lot to secure a ride to the event.
As it turned out, prostitution wasn’t necessary. The kind and lovely Marcella Burnard – a sci-fi romance author with no way of knowing whether I routinely kill sci-fi romance authors and bury their bodies in my vegetable garden – read of my flat tire woes on Twitter. Since we have a mutual Twitter acquaintance and were both attending the librarian event, she offered to pick me up and drive me to our destination.
Forget Fabio on the cover of a bodice ripper, Marcella is my hero.
In the morning, I limped my pitiful car to a nearby shop and alternated between sniffling back tears and giggling each time someone began a sentence “I just jacked…”
I stopped giggling when the repair guy suggested the tire was likely ruined, and since the car is all-time all-wheel-drive, would need four new tires.
But luck was on my side, and by “luck” I mean a giant nail the size of my middle finger.
“Turns out the tire isn’t ruined,” the repair guy told me. “We were able to pull out the nail and fix the tire after all.”
I’m pretty sure I swooned with relief. “That’s so great. Can I have the nail?”
He looked at me like I was nuts – an expression you’ll be surprised to hear is familiar – and retreated back to the shop. He returned to hand me the evil implement, which I tucked inside my wallet for safekeeping.
It's possible I was the only romance author at the convention who routinely whipped out a rusty nail in the course of routine introductions, but I thought it made a lovely conversation piece.
It also answered that author’s question – albeit, in a vaguely weird way . This is why I write romantic comedy. Because I can find the humor in all situations. Because flat tires and rusty nails really are funny if you look hard enough. Because even though it annoys the hell out of loved ones from time to time, the fact that I can find the funny in anything is what makes me who I am.
Why did you pick your genre? Was there an epiphany involved, or did you know from the moment you started writing? Please share.
I will share a picture of my nail. Impressive, huh?
“Romantic comedy,” I replied, preparing to ask her the same question while assessing her attire to see if I could guess on my own.
Before I could ask, she gave me an incredulous look. “Romantic comedy? Why?”
I’m not sure if it was a comment on the volatility of that sub-genre or the fact that I hadn’t managed to say anything hysterical in the eight seconds we’d known each other.
Either way, I thought about the nail.
If you read the blog on Friday, you know I got a flat tire on my journey to the conference. I discovered it just after I arrived in Issaquah, WA for a “librarian speed dating” event. Though I’ve never been to Issaquah and found it to be a lovely town, I wasn’t keen on roaming it on foot to search for the event location.
A smart person would have assessed the tire damage and contacted a repair professional.
I made jokes on Twitter.
Then I called Pythagoras and described the tire’s condition in a conversation that may have included the phrase “flaccid manhood.”
Don’t get me wrong – there was some crying and cursing, and the obvious panic about whether I was going to have to turn tricks in the hotel parking lot to secure a ride to the event.
As it turned out, prostitution wasn’t necessary. The kind and lovely Marcella Burnard – a sci-fi romance author with no way of knowing whether I routinely kill sci-fi romance authors and bury their bodies in my vegetable garden – read of my flat tire woes on Twitter. Since we have a mutual Twitter acquaintance and were both attending the librarian event, she offered to pick me up and drive me to our destination.
Forget Fabio on the cover of a bodice ripper, Marcella is my hero.
In the morning, I limped my pitiful car to a nearby shop and alternated between sniffling back tears and giggling each time someone began a sentence “I just jacked…”
I stopped giggling when the repair guy suggested the tire was likely ruined, and since the car is all-time all-wheel-drive, would need four new tires.
But luck was on my side, and by “luck” I mean a giant nail the size of my middle finger.
“Turns out the tire isn’t ruined,” the repair guy told me. “We were able to pull out the nail and fix the tire after all.”
I’m pretty sure I swooned with relief. “That’s so great. Can I have the nail?”
He looked at me like I was nuts – an expression you’ll be surprised to hear is familiar – and retreated back to the shop. He returned to hand me the evil implement, which I tucked inside my wallet for safekeeping.
It's possible I was the only romance author at the convention who routinely whipped out a rusty nail in the course of routine introductions, but I thought it made a lovely conversation piece.
It also answered that author’s question – albeit, in a vaguely weird way . This is why I write romantic comedy. Because I can find the humor in all situations. Because flat tires and rusty nails really are funny if you look hard enough. Because even though it annoys the hell out of loved ones from time to time, the fact that I can find the funny in anything is what makes me who I am.
Why did you pick your genre? Was there an epiphany involved, or did you know from the moment you started writing? Please share.
I will share a picture of my nail. Impressive, huh?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Making car rides entertaining with minimal risk of arrest
The drive from my home in Central Oregon to the Emerald City Writers' Conference in Seattle is 7-8 hours each way. Even broken up with a pit-stop in Salem to see my parents, that's a helluva long time to be in the car with nothing to amuse me but the occasional glimpse of a passing motorist picking his nose.
This is where audiobooks come in handy. Pythagoras and I first borrowed one from the library about ten years ago on a drive to Nevada where traffic is so sparse we didn't even have nose pickers to amuse us. We listened to James Patterson's KISS THE GIRLS and cracked up every time the narrator dramatically growled "tick-cock."
Since Pythagoras' daily commute is less than two miles and mine is a flight of stairs down to my writing computer, we don't really listen to audiobooks during the week. Still, they do come in handy. Two years ago, Pythagoras accepted a temporary job in a town 2.5 hours away. We spent 10 months living in different places and visiting each other on weekends (a lovely way to celebrate your 10th year of marriage).
I credit audiobooks not only with keeping us sane on many late-night drives, but also with exposing me to books I might not have read otherwise. I was curious about Barbara Kingsolver's ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE (a memoir of a year spent deliberately eating only food produced in their town) but knew it was one of those books that would never rise to the top of my to-be-read pile. I found it on audiobook and spent several memorable car trips pretending Barbara was sitting there in the passenger seat sharing my bag of Doritos and reading me her story.
For this trip to the Emerald City conference, I've loaded my iPhone with several selections to make the miles pass quickly. It's got me wondering whether my books will ever be done in audio format. I looked at my contract this morning just to see if it's mentioned, but I got bored reading and only managed to confirm that the phrase "audio rights" is indeed in there (along with about 8 million other words that make me very sleepy).
The very idea blows my mind. I listen to Cynthia Nixon reading the Emily Giffin novel currently in my player and think, "could she someday be reading the Strip Battleship scene from MAKING WAVES?"
Probably not, but the thought amuses me even more than the nose picking thing.
Do you enjoy audiobooks? If so, are there certain books you'll listen to while reserving others for reading yourself? How do you think it changes things to listen to a book instead of reading it yourself? Please share.
I'm busy cracking up at the thought of Cynthia Nixon uttering the line "Oh baby! I want to rub your cheese doodle 'til my hands turn orange!"
This is where audiobooks come in handy. Pythagoras and I first borrowed one from the library about ten years ago on a drive to Nevada where traffic is so sparse we didn't even have nose pickers to amuse us. We listened to James Patterson's KISS THE GIRLS and cracked up every time the narrator dramatically growled "tick-cock."
Since Pythagoras' daily commute is less than two miles and mine is a flight of stairs down to my writing computer, we don't really listen to audiobooks during the week. Still, they do come in handy. Two years ago, Pythagoras accepted a temporary job in a town 2.5 hours away. We spent 10 months living in different places and visiting each other on weekends (a lovely way to celebrate your 10th year of marriage).
I credit audiobooks not only with keeping us sane on many late-night drives, but also with exposing me to books I might not have read otherwise. I was curious about Barbara Kingsolver's ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MIRACLE (a memoir of a year spent deliberately eating only food produced in their town) but knew it was one of those books that would never rise to the top of my to-be-read pile. I found it on audiobook and spent several memorable car trips pretending Barbara was sitting there in the passenger seat sharing my bag of Doritos and reading me her story.
For this trip to the Emerald City conference, I've loaded my iPhone with several selections to make the miles pass quickly. It's got me wondering whether my books will ever be done in audio format. I looked at my contract this morning just to see if it's mentioned, but I got bored reading and only managed to confirm that the phrase "audio rights" is indeed in there (along with about 8 million other words that make me very sleepy).
The very idea blows my mind. I listen to Cynthia Nixon reading the Emily Giffin novel currently in my player and think, "could she someday be reading the Strip Battleship scene from MAKING WAVES?"
Probably not, but the thought amuses me even more than the nose picking thing.
Do you enjoy audiobooks? If so, are there certain books you'll listen to while reserving others for reading yourself? How do you think it changes things to listen to a book instead of reading it yourself? Please share.
I'm busy cracking up at the thought of Cynthia Nixon uttering the line "Oh baby! I want to rub your cheese doodle 'til my hands turn orange!"
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Packing it all in
I take pride in my ability to travel light.
I can journey around the South Pacific with just a small backpack to hold all the clothing, toiletries, camping equipment, and snorkel gear I need for an entire month. I can’t remember the last time I checked a bag on an airplane, and I’m a pro at washing socks in hotel sinks to avoid packing that extra pair.
So could someone please explain why I suddenly think it’s necessary to have six pairs of black shoes for a three-day writers’ conference?
I tried to justify it by reminding myself there’s fourth day in there for a “librarian speed dating” soiree the night before the conference, but it’s unlikely the organizers will require me to change shoes four times during the event.
Seriously, what the hell am I doing?
It’s not just shoes, either. I’ve caught myself tossing in sweaters and blouses, skirts and slacks – enough stuff to clothe every conference attendee if we all decided to gather in the lobby and get dressed together.
In my defense, it’s my first writers’ conference. I’m still a little uncertain about weather conditions and clothing trends or the possibility we’ll be required to switch outfits once an hour like celebrities at a televised awards show.
I know I need to go through my suitcase this morning and get serious about weeding things out. Still, what if I get there and find I just can’t leave the hotel room without my pink sweater? Or my blue one? Or my black skirt? Or—
Are you an over-packer or a light traveler? Does it vary depending on where you’re going? Please share.
I’ll be busy eyeing those jewel-crusted stilettos that lace up the leg. Maybe I still have room in the suitcase…
I can journey around the South Pacific with just a small backpack to hold all the clothing, toiletries, camping equipment, and snorkel gear I need for an entire month. I can’t remember the last time I checked a bag on an airplane, and I’m a pro at washing socks in hotel sinks to avoid packing that extra pair.
So could someone please explain why I suddenly think it’s necessary to have six pairs of black shoes for a three-day writers’ conference?
I tried to justify it by reminding myself there’s fourth day in there for a “librarian speed dating” soiree the night before the conference, but it’s unlikely the organizers will require me to change shoes four times during the event.
Seriously, what the hell am I doing?
It’s not just shoes, either. I’ve caught myself tossing in sweaters and blouses, skirts and slacks – enough stuff to clothe every conference attendee if we all decided to gather in the lobby and get dressed together.
In my defense, it’s my first writers’ conference. I’m still a little uncertain about weather conditions and clothing trends or the possibility we’ll be required to switch outfits once an hour like celebrities at a televised awards show.
I know I need to go through my suitcase this morning and get serious about weeding things out. Still, what if I get there and find I just can’t leave the hotel room without my pink sweater? Or my blue one? Or my black skirt? Or—
Are you an over-packer or a light traveler? Does it vary depending on where you’re going? Please share.
I’ll be busy eyeing those jewel-crusted stilettos that lace up the leg. Maybe I still have room in the suitcase…
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Please don't let me pee myself at this conference
You know that irrational fear you might hurl yourself off a balcony or scream curse words in church?
I see a few of you nodding and the rest wondering if you should keep a closer eye on your friends in multi-story buildings and places of worship.
I feel this way as I prepare to attend my first writers’ conference this week. Not that I’m afraid I’ll leap from the 17th floor of the Seattle East Hilton Bellevue, though the cursing is always likely.
It’s more that I don’t know what to expect, and I realize there’s a strong possibility I’ll spit gristle in someone’s purse or spontaneously lift my dress over my head.
It’s the little things that worry me, really. I’ve studied the list of workshops available at the Emerald City Writers Conference, but I’m not savvy enough to know how many I get to attend or how I’ll find my way from point A to point B. I specified my preference for the smoked salmon ravioli, but worry I should stuff my purse with crackers and a 15-pound turkey to satisfy my constant need for snacking.
And what to wear? “Business casual” in Central Oregon means something very different than it does in Seattle, and I also fret that the current heat wave in the Pacific Northwest will prompt conference organizers to air condition the rooms to the approximate temperature of a meat locker.
At least I don’t have to roam the city looking for a good cardboard box to sleep in. A couple members of my RWA chapter in Portland very kindly offered me a spot in their room, but I’m not certain whether I’ll be sleeping in a bed or on the bathroom floor. I also have to confess that I’m not 100% sure I’ve met these kind souls in person. What can I say? I’m terrible with names and faces, and despite our friendly email banter about room rates and breakfasts, it still hasn’t completely clicked for me who these women are. If it turns out they’re zombies or serial killers, I hope the maid doesn’t have too much trouble scrubbing my blood from the carpet.
I know these are trivial things in the grand scheme of my writing career, and I’ll figure it all out once I get there. I’m attending this conference to learn and to make new friends, and I intend to do that even if I have to use my plastic pirate sword to take hostages in the lobby.
Have you been to a writers’ conference before? Do you have any tips for newbies like me? If you’ve never attended one, what’s holding you back?
Admit it – it’s the cursing thing, right?
I see a few of you nodding and the rest wondering if you should keep a closer eye on your friends in multi-story buildings and places of worship.
I feel this way as I prepare to attend my first writers’ conference this week. Not that I’m afraid I’ll leap from the 17th floor of the Seattle East Hilton Bellevue, though the cursing is always likely.
It’s more that I don’t know what to expect, and I realize there’s a strong possibility I’ll spit gristle in someone’s purse or spontaneously lift my dress over my head.
It’s the little things that worry me, really. I’ve studied the list of workshops available at the Emerald City Writers Conference, but I’m not savvy enough to know how many I get to attend or how I’ll find my way from point A to point B. I specified my preference for the smoked salmon ravioli, but worry I should stuff my purse with crackers and a 15-pound turkey to satisfy my constant need for snacking.
And what to wear? “Business casual” in Central Oregon means something very different than it does in Seattle, and I also fret that the current heat wave in the Pacific Northwest will prompt conference organizers to air condition the rooms to the approximate temperature of a meat locker.
At least I don’t have to roam the city looking for a good cardboard box to sleep in. A couple members of my RWA chapter in Portland very kindly offered me a spot in their room, but I’m not certain whether I’ll be sleeping in a bed or on the bathroom floor. I also have to confess that I’m not 100% sure I’ve met these kind souls in person. What can I say? I’m terrible with names and faces, and despite our friendly email banter about room rates and breakfasts, it still hasn’t completely clicked for me who these women are. If it turns out they’re zombies or serial killers, I hope the maid doesn’t have too much trouble scrubbing my blood from the carpet.
I know these are trivial things in the grand scheme of my writing career, and I’ll figure it all out once I get there. I’m attending this conference to learn and to make new friends, and I intend to do that even if I have to use my plastic pirate sword to take hostages in the lobby.
Have you been to a writers’ conference before? Do you have any tips for newbies like me? If you’ve never attended one, what’s holding you back?
Admit it – it’s the cursing thing, right?
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