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 You meet editors, agents, other writers, both published and unpublished, experienced and inexperienced.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.
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