Yesterday I wasn’t sure I was attending RWA’s national conference (or National, as it’s commonly known). Tia had problems over the weekend. So I took a “gift” from her to the vet, who did a lab and determined she’s NOT bleeding internally. They gave me new meds to soothe her system, and Tia is acting perky again.
I have Connie the pet sitter to cook for her, so I feel free to drive 12 hours to Hotlanta, as Linnea Sinclair calls it. Linnea is up for two RITA awards. I want to be at the awards to see her win one. Linnea’s writing journey is amazing. She went from being e-published, and not having any of her books recognized as “real” books by RWA to being nominated for two RITA’s.
Having attending RT only two months ago, and now doing RWA, I must remember the differences between the two conferences. RT is fun, parties, meeting readers and booksellers. Sort of barefoot in the grass, kick your shoes off as you slug back that 100th chocolate martini and discover interesting gossip about cover models. (Are his testicles really THAT big?)
RWA is a proper tea party where you sit up straight and order Green Chai and hide the run in your pantyhose by shifting one leg behind the other.
This will be my first National conference since 2002, the year my first book was published. What a high! I got my pink ribbon and walked around in a proud daze, like I was Published.
At National next week, I'll be blogging about the differences between my first conference as a NAPPA (New Astounded Proud Published Author) and now as a MAGHOMO (Multi-published Author of Genres with Heroines Obtaining Multiple Orgasms.)
National will prove challenging. Two reasons why:
I’m a decidophobic.
I always have a shoe crisis at conferences. And I have trouble making decisions. Being a decidophobic leads to all sorts of interesting speculations at National.
How much promo stuff for THE PANTHER & THE PYRAMID do I bring? Which workshop to attend? When do I get together with old friends? Do we do lunch or dinner or breakfast? What dress to wear? Should I wear the spring breeze underarm deodorant or should I opt for my pits to smell more like a rose garden? Do I curl my hair or leave it flat? Should I pluck, or not pluck, my eyebrows? What genre should I research? What editor should I stalk? What agent should I trap in the bathroom, armed with a ten-inch thick manuscript while I’m holding all the toilet paper hostage?
Oh wait. I’m published. I can’t/won’t/shouldn’t do that anymore.
Still, it might be fun. The Rules are you NEVER take your book to give it to an editor/agent. But I could cart along my very first manuscript, the ten-inch thick book that never sold, and use it as a weapon should I get mugged.
Police: What happened here, people? Why is this man lying on the sidewalk?
Witness: He tried to mug author Bonnie Vanak and she coshed him with her 200,000 word manuscript that had a soap opera star for a hero, a rich, spoiled heroine, one sick horse and an exploding yacht, the single title mistake she pitched as category to a Harlequin editor nine years ago.
Police: Looks like he’ll be in a coma for a few years.
Witness: Yeah. Just like Bonnie’s book.
Stay tuned for details next week, when I attend PAN workshops and wonder if anyone notices I’m not sitting up straight.