Stepping out of the boat - 2008 Romance Writers of America Conference

2008 Romance Writers of America, San Francisco – Wednesday, July 30: Day 1

It has taken me about a week to recover from the Romance Writers of America conference in San Francisco. It’s a bustling, busy conference, with workshops and events going from 8 am to 10 pm every day. You meet editors, agents, other writers, both published and unpublished, experienced and inexperienced. I’ve been in the romance community since 1988—good heavens, 20 years!—and have gone mostly to local conferences (Emerald City Writer’s Conference, especially), but the RWA conference is the biggie, the one every romance writer goes to if she (or he—we have a few male writers, too) wants to know where to sell and to whom, and to get some pointers about writing, too.

The conference offers a lot for the newbie, as well as for someone like myself who is assessing whether or not I want to do this again—write romances, write fiction in general. I’m working full time at an environmental engineering firm, making good money, and it’s helping to put my kid through college (the Alien Child works too, so it’s not like he’s riding on Mom and Dad’s beneficence). After he graduates—soon—we can make repairs on our house at last. Replace the 22-year-old dishwasher, replace the dented and peeling kitchen floor, replace the old, worn carpet, paint the walls, replaced double-paned windows whose seals no longer work, and one that has a crack in it....

Writing romances...well, it’s not considered a fount of material abundance, let’s just say that. And I have the unfortunate tendency to write things that are about two to three years ahead of the trend. Not a good thing when you want to sell a book.

Yet, there’s that pull to write again....

What do do? In my usual way when I’ut what I’m supposed to do. Actually, give me three signs, because I’m never confident about these things. In fact, the more the better.

Note, I don’t offer a favor in return. I don’t presume to know what kind of favor God’ll want, because hey, the Big Guy’s infinite, and I’m not. I’m okay with that, because infinity is sort of math-like, and I’m not into math much, despite doing quite well in college Calculus (hey, I’m not a genius, but a 3.6 is not too shabby for an English major, and I am allowing myself to take pride in that achievement). I’ll leave differential equations and infinity to God and mathematicians, thank-you-very-much. How do I discern signs? Well...

The RWA conference in San Francisco. I check in at the Victorian-era, Euro-style Mosser, the hotel across the street from the Marriott (the conference hotel), after a painful (and slow) amble through the airport, because I broke my ankle more than a month ago and am wearing a splint (hell through airport security). But, when I went to my room, I find instead of a single room with shared bath, I have a double room with a private bathroom. Surely, there must be a mistake. I go back down to the check-in desk.

The very nice desk clerk shakes her head. No, she says. They’ve had to change rooms around, and since I contacted them directly for a reservation, I got an upgrade at no extra cost. You’re meant to be there, she says. Her words give me pause, but I give myself a mental shake, smile, and thank her.

I went up again, and my eyes lit on the room number...which add up (numerologically) to 8. The thought occurred to me that, numerologically, 8 is my life path number. I’d been discussing numerology with some writer friends online but a few days before this. I remember the desk clerk’s words. You are meant to be here. Hmm. I unload my stuff and hobble across the street in my splint to get my registration packet at the conference.

Entering the Marriott, I find the workshop rooms are at the BACK of the hotel. I eye my foot brace. I don’t like my foot brace, I decide. It chafes and hurts and the thought of going back and forth MILES AND MILES in it is depressing. Thank goodness I don’t have to sign any books at the Literacy for Life mass autographing, because I’d been told by the RWA staff that they couldn’t supply any of my books for the signing. Fine with me, I thought. I can have fun browsing books and chat with friends instead. I’ve not had a chance simply to visit and browse books in a long, long time.

But no. I see an online friend, a romance reader, who informs me that my name is on the autographing list. Dear heaven. I’m not prepared! I don’t have posters or pretty pens or anything like that. I only have some very lovely bookmarks designed by a very talented graphic artist who goes to my church. And those bookmarks are back at my hotel room.

So I hobble back, grab my bookmarks, and once again eye my stupid chafing foot splint. I now hate this splint with a passion. I’m supposed to wear it for another week, but it’’ sound.

I carefully put on my athletic shoes, not caring that this is not precisely conference professional wear. I deserve to be comfortable, dang it! And I find...well, it doesn’t hurt to put on the shoes. I can even stand all right on it. I’ll be careful, I think, it’ll be fine. I take an Aleve, just in case. I can do this.

And I do. I’m careful not to put too much weight on the foot, but though it feels odd, it doesn’t hurt, perhaps a little ache, but that's it.

I’m late to the autographing, because I keep seeing friends I’ve made through the years, and exchanging greetings and hugs is important. I don’t expect to have many books on my table, anyway, and it’s been years since I’ve written a book, who’s going to remember me?

But it turns out I do have more than a few books on my table, the Dragon Lovers anthology, which also features Jo Beverley’s, Barbara Samuel’s, and Mary Jo Putney’s stories. I can see readers wanting their autographs, because those gals are veteran writers and on the New York Times list, but though I’ve written more than a few books, I’m not in their league. I shrug. No big deal. The two ladies on either side of me have interesting books, and it doesn’t hurt to be friendly and chat. Much better than being at a booksigning by myself!

I end up buying their books (The Second Virginity of Suzy Green, by Sara Hantz, and The Prince’s Royal Dilemma, by Brenda Harlen), because they seem interesting, and they are nice, and I count it good luck to buy books from authors I’m sitting next to at a booksigning. The autographing goes much faster than I had anticipated, because friends keep dropping by to chat: Katy Cooper, Cybil Solyn of Rakehell Reviews (the first fan to contact me via e-mail, when the Internet was in its infancy!), Kathy Payne, and Jill Purinton, among others.

I don’t get to visit other authors, which is too bad, because I wanted at least to say hi to Gerri Russell, one of my critique group partners, and who has two books out now. I did want to take a picture of her with her books, especially since I consider her getting-to-publication story a triumphant one.

By the time the autographing is done, it’s about 7 pm, I’m hungry, my broken-but-healing/healed foot is feeling odd, and I’m so tired, the rest of the evening is too blurry in my memory to recall. I believe I ate dinner, but that’s all I remember, although I think dinner had to do with wine, cheese, and fruit up in Jo Beverley’s and someone else’s executive suite. I don’t even remember if I ate it alone or with someone. I do remember chatting with a couple of ladies in the literacy book-buying line, and I remember what they looked like, but my foot was beginning to throb and lack-of-estrogen brain kicked in, so remembering names is hopeless. I remember one of the gals in line was very much into writing books set during the Civil War, which I encouraged, because I really do see that this is the time to write about that era. Historical resonances and all, you see.

All I know is that I returned to my hotel room at the Mosser, noticed that the tub was very deep, and used up massive water resources by soaking in a bubble bath, and then went to bed.

End of day one.

The Day after the 21st birthday

Hmph. So we went to see Curtis Salgado at Jazzbones last night, and a fine time was had by all.

Salgado is a great blues/rock musician, and of course the Alien Child is a big fan of that type of music, his favorites being Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, BB King, Muddy Waters...well, pretty much any blues guitarist. So he was quite pleased with the music.

Jazzbones is on 6th avenue in Tacoma, WA, and is a smallish nightclub that nevertheless has featured some fine musicians. You can have a nice dinner there (which we did) and it really doesn't matter where you sit, you are in good earshot and can have a good view of the stage. The music was infectiously energetic, and people spontaneously jumped up and danced to the tunes. There were more than a few fine dancers there, with one couple in their 60's or so twirling around with expertise.

I noticed that except for the waitresses, the Alien Child was the youngest there; we got front seats because we had told the reservation desk that it was his 21st birthday. As the music progressed, though, I noticed he looked around and began to get a funny expression on his face.

I asked him what was up, and he gave a half grin. "I can tell this isn't the sort of place for someone in my generation," he said, with a wry smile. He nodded at the dancers on the floor, particularly at the expert couple whose dance was turning decidedly sensuous. "I mean, dude, that's a Cialis advertisement right there."

I feel old now.

He did say he enjoyed himself a lot, especially the music. But I have to say that the odd expression kept appearing on his face every time he looked at the dancers.

The Alien Child is 21 Today

Officially an adult. Well, legally an adult at age 18, but at 21 he's fully an adult; he is now allowed to consume alcohol, he can now drive a truck commercially (not at the same time, of course), and who knows what else.

"Who knows what else."

That has a ring of gloom to it. It could be that I'm feeling just a tad older because of this. Or, perhaps it was just that it was a rough sort of day at work.

Well.

I remember the day he was born. As is typical for Friday the 13th, it went extraordinarily well. I have always had good luck on that day, despite the traditions around that date. The child conveniently was ready to arrive just before rush-hour, so we had no trouble traveling to town on I-5, and he thoughtfully arrived just before dinner time. It was the day--as my husband will tell you--that Ray Luca in Crime Story met his nuclear death--more or less. We didn't have a name ready, so we looked through a baby name book. The hubby thought Jason might be a good name, but considering it was Friday the 13th, I thought that was a bad idea.

We decided on Derek, as it has a good meaning (ruler of the people, or ruled by the people), and I have grown up sensitive to the meaning and sounds of names.


He is out with friends at the moment, no doubt celebrating his birthday. We'll have our family celebration on Friday, when we will be going down to Tacoma and watching/listening to Curtis Salgado at Jazzbones. I'm looking forward to it; it's been a difficult and frustrating week at work, and I will be glad of a bit of time when I can just sit back and forget the work-a-day world.

I just called him--yep, he's out with a friend he's known since they were in junior high and may not be back until late, perhaps he'll even stay overnight. Although, his friend and fiancee has just had a baby girl, and I doubt anyone will have much sleep! So, perhaps he will come home.

And that's another aging thing: some of his friends have already started families.

Urgh.

Not thinking about that now. Good night!

--Karen H.

Why I love my husband

A few days before Valentine's Day, John brought flowers; he brings flowers every day the week of Valentine's Day. But this is not why I love him. I love him because that day, a few days before Valentine's day, he sat down at the kitchen table and he wept.

He wept because Caleb, the 3-year-old son of a coworker, was dying of liver cancer.

Caleb was born very prematurely; about 2 lbs, I think. There was a great struggle to get the child stable, but after a while, he did, and was able to come home. My hubby was encouraging, and prayed for the child, let the parents know he cared.

Then the baby was diagnosed with liver cancer. Again the prayers, and John got his co-workers to go to one of those places where you can fix dinners ahead of time, and all of them made up meals. John and I visited the parents, and brought the food. I could tell the parents were tired, and the poor baby fretful. John took a personal interest in them, kept tabs on the baby and the family. Caleb seemed to be rallying, and the cancer went into remission. What a fighter that baby was, and that young family so full of hope.

But then the cancer came back. Nothing the doctors can do about it. Three years of struggle, with a few periods of light and hope and relief from illness. My husband came home, looked at me, and said, "Caleb is dying. His father just went to the hospital, to be with him as he is dying." And he sat down and cried.

I went to him and held him, and cried a little too. An empty crib, an empty room, a house empty of a child's voice where there had once been cries and words and laughter. I had hoped the Caleb would be all right--well, who wouldn't hope that? And while nobody should get cancer, you think, a child--a baby--least of all. There's no understanding it, no sense in it. It's something you have to let go after a while, hoping it's part of something bigger, or else it'll make you crazy, crazy with despair. You go down that road of despair, and things just get darker, as if the world wasn't dark enough. A lot of people give into that, and the darkness just grows and swallows up more people.

But I look at my husband, weeping, and I know that he's one who pushes back at the dark, despite the fact that he can get a lot more pessimistic than I do. He cares enough to pray over a baby, ease the work and pain of a young family. He goes monthly to a shelter to feed the homeless. He stops when someone's car is stuck by the side of the road and helps.

He holds up a lit candle in the dark, and tries to light some more. He fights the dark. He is a warrior for the light.

This is why I love him.

--Karen

The Alien Child

It occurs to me that I should probably explain why I call my son the Alien Child. It's a term of affection that he is aware of and doesn't mind at all (I asked).

This is why:

1. At the age of 1 1/2 months, the hubby caught the baby concentrating mightily on a rattle that hung at the side of his crib. The baby extended his closed fist slowly and carefully until he reached the rattle, then gave it a good push. This excited him, and he did this over and over again--for a good half hour. I'd worked with babies before, and I've never seen this level of concentration and focus.

2. At the age of two, the toddler--now in Montessori pre-school--sat in his high chair munching his lunch contemplatively one weekend, then suddenly announced, "Mommy, I chew good with my mandible."

I said, "What?"

He pointed to his jaw. "I chew good with my mandible."

Okay, I thought. This must be a fluke. So I smiled and replied, "and you also have a good grip on your spoon with your fingers."

He looked at me gravely and then looked at his fingers. "Mommy, you are not very smart. Those are my phalanges." He then proceeded to point to where his clavicle, radius, ulna, femur, tibia, and fibia were.

That was how I discovered he had somehow memorized all the medical names for the major bones of the human body. Apparently for Halloween, the teachers had put a skeleton up on the wall, and when he asked what the different bones were, they told him the proper names. He proceeded to form a passion for human anatomy, and when he found I had a Gray's Dissection Guide on my bookshelf, he begged me to read it to him and show him all the pictures for a bed-time story, instead of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. I did, since the troll in the Billy Goats story frightened him, but Gray's Dissection Guide did not. Go figure.

He was still in diapers. Not interested in potty training, even though I told him he would be a "big boy" and could wear "big boy underwear" if he was trained. However, when my dad heard that Derek had this interest, he got him one of those Visible Human Body models. Well, the model was much too old for a two-year-old, and I said it was only for big boys. The Alien Child got a speculative look on his face as I put the model out of reach, and said, "Mommy, if I go potty by myself, does that mean I'll be a big boy?"

Swiftly and unapologetically taking advantage of this piece of logic, I said "Yes! Absolutely! "

Within a week, the Alien Child was potty trained, and as promised, I got down the model for him to play with. He is the only child I know of who was bribed into potty training with a human anatomy model. I once asked him why he was so interested in human anatomy, and he told me that he used to be a doctor when he was an old man, a long time ago when the man Cadillac was alive. I was puzzled by this, as I thought Cadillac was a car. I later found out he was a French explorer of the 17th and 18th century. Hmm.

He went on to draw pictures of skeletons, skulls, and internal organs, copied from the dissection guide, then his interest turned to paleoanthropology.

3. By the time he was seven, he had memorized all the different species of early hominids, and had drawn a time line and examples of each hominid species along that line, including skeletal and skull examples. The hubby and I decided he should probably go into the gifted program, and so sent him off to be tested. I was worried, because he'd never been tested before, and he was herded into a huge auditorium and then into separate classrooms. I didn't think he'd do well at it. I was a bit late picking him up, and so found him discussing early human evolution with the counselor, and telling her the difference between the theories of the Leakeys and Johanson, and drawing anatomically accurate pictures of the skulls of Neanderthal, australopithecus, and homo habilis. The counselor looked at me and said, "I don't care what the test scores say, this child needs to be in the program."

4. Concurrent with his interest in paleoanthropology was an interest in art, particularly Renaissance art. As with the other interests, he drew pictures of these, too. The hubby and I enrolled him in art classes when we discovered him drawing a copy of a Leonardo sketch. He continued with the art classes until high school, and his interest expanded beyond the Renaissance. We now have a collection of Michaelangelo, Vermeer, Leonardo, and Toulouse Lautrec forgeries, in addition to some originals he created. He gave a replica of Michaelangelo's Libyan Sybil of the Sistine Chapel ceiling to our pastor at the time. Here's one that he painted in an Impressionist style for me when I was ill with pneumonia once, just to cheer me up.


Here is another picture he painted, for which he won a prize in elementary school. It went on tour nationally, but I still have not got the picture back, and it's literally been about a decade. Pisses me off, because I've called and called the PTA for years, and nobody knows what happened to it, and I really liked it. It would have looked good on our wall. It's sort of a post-apocalyptic picture, where nature takes over the ruins of our civilization. If anyone has seen this picture anywhere, let me know, because I want it back.


5. He went through a number of other obsessions, including skateboarding. That last occupation gave him a broken ankle at the age of 16, and while recuperating, he took up an old Yamaha acoustic guitar and a book of blues chords that my brother Dave gave him. Within a year and a half, he was playing in the church band, after having bought himself an electric guitar. Now that he's in college, he's in a band.

6. He also has a talent for finding expensive clothes that fit him perfectly at thrift stores. Example: he once found an almost-new Armani jacket at the American Cancer Society's thrift store. Cost only $20. Fit perfectly, and needed no alteration. He paired it with a bizarrely printed silk shirt and a tie, but it all worked. That's another thing. He'll take items of clothes that separately look like they don't belong, but when when worn, look like a million bucks. I could not get away with this kind of thing, ever. I try to pick out nice clothes for myself, but I am ever in danger of looking like a bag lady if I tried to be artistic about it.

You see how it is. Neither my husband or I have this level of artistic or intellectual skill or focus. I don't know where it came from. Although I know his taste for fine clothes at bargain-basement prices came from my mother and myself. My mother positively beamed with pride when she saw that Armani. I was also impressed, and we both gave the purchase the Ritual Moment of Respectful Silence before exclaiming over the amazing bargain. I mean, Armani. Twenty bucks. Perfect fit. Like new. What's not to like?

So this is why I call him the Alien Child. I sometimes wondered if he'd been dropped into my womb by an alien entity, but there are too many other things about him that he definitely took after my husband or me, and so I have to conclude he's definitely ours. Besides, we're too attached to him now to return him.

And now you have been exposed to a blatant form of cornering you with family pictures when you are sitting on the window seat of an airplane, but this is my blog and I'm posting it. :-D

--Karen H.

I astonish even myself sometimes

Every once in a while, I'll go through and delete my "sent" message files--I subscribe to a LOT of online writing groups, so much that I rarely have time to keep up--and I'll find that I have actually posted something useful vis a vis writing.

About the craft of writing:

That said...there is a mind-set that is behind Zen archery that I try to
remember. You learn technique until it doesn't matter any more. It becomes
one with who you are and the movement of you, the bow, the arrow, the
target. It is all one...but that only after you learn technique.

There is a pattern to learning the technique. You at first learn it, you
become bound by it, then you break free, and you are beyond it. But it
doesn't happen until you walk the path, learn the art.

Or, as my mother used to say, "so what if you don't have talent? You will
learn talent."

I have often thought my mother is actually Yoda in disguise.

Which is actually useful advice, because it means you need to have patience with yourself as you learn, get stuck, are released, and then understand and attain mastery.

The market (advice to a newbie):

Times change, trends change, and what didn’t work in the past will work now. Running after the latest trend will make for failure. The truth is, if you write what you love, the trend will move to what you are writing sooner or later. Running after the latest trend is like running after the bus that just left the station: you’ll always be running after it and exhausting yourself, instead of catching the next bus when it comes by if you stand where you are. That next bus may well have been the one that would have taken you where you wanted to go. Anyone who writes to the trend MIGHT get lucky and have one, maybe two books published. But you’ll see them burn out pretty quick, because they're always running after that bus instead of focusing on the art. Burn-out can mean the end of their career.

Homily for the day: THERE IS ALWAYS ANOTHER BUS.

Of course, this piece of advice could be pandering to those who think they are somehow "above" the market, which is not what I subscribe to, for that way lies madness, or at least bitterness. You really do have to think of your audience (not what publishers want--that's a different thing). IMHO, it's best to have an attitude of generosity about your writing, a wish to share the pleasure you have in the writing, as if you've created the most delicious meal you can imagine, and have invited your readers in for the feast. The most popular authors I know of have this attitude, an attitude of invitation, so that you are welcomed in to party along with him or her.

Did I ever say how much I love writing? I do, I purely do.

Happy New Year!

I spent a quiet New Year, which was fine with me, especially after the mad rush that was Christmas. The Alien Child was off with friends, and the poor hubby was so tired and a bit headachy that I sent him off to bed by 10:30 pm.

So I sat in the TV/studio room (the dh has a mixing and mastering studio), sipping some port and slowly savoring some dark chocolate, while I watched an at-last aging Dick Clark call in the New Year. I can't believe the man is about as old as my father-in-law, and I am no spring chicken. Clark must have made a Faustian deal somewhere in his career, either that or massive face-lifts. Must have been really good face lifts, because his appearance hasn't looked...well, stretched.

Okay, not going down that line of thought, because it immediately makes me think of the Doctor Who episode featuring Lady Cassandra, that last, stretched-out remnant of homo sapiens at the end of the world ("Moisturize me! Moisturize me!").

Ahem.

Well. Anyway, I toasted the TV screen with my port and chocolate, and so I toast you all, the world, for a much better, Pollyanna New Year.

Think of things to be glad about, folks. Lots of things. And hold them close to your heart. It's how you get through the hard stuff to the good. And may it all be good.