Aren’t writing conventions thrilling? The 32nd annual Romance Writers of America convention in Los Angeles certainly was. All the excitement of seeing old friends, meeting new friends, and rubbing elbows with NY Times and USA Today bestselling authors. That magic moment of exchanging business cards, like real business professionals. The excitement of new ideas, of learning things from multi-multi-published authors, icons in my genre. Seeing icons in the flesh, hearing their pearls of wisdom. Meeting with agents and editors to further my career. The dazzle of awards night when glitz, high heels and bling were the order of the hour. When excited shrieks met a winner’s name and even I began to believe I might want a gold statue someday.
Oh what a time it was. Two thousand women speaking simultaneously. Bright women. Driven women. Businesswomen and starry-eyed dreamers. And some men too. I sat next to a few in classes while my head was being stuffed with ideas and knowledge and choices and directions. So much information was packed into those few short days and crammed into my head that I’m still processing it days later.
And what I’m processing is a seedling of desire for more: for bigger, better, more fantastic. That convention sold me a dream. I didn’t even see it happening. But I carried it home on the plane. It’s nebulous. It has no defined shape. It has no paved path. It’s a want so massive it throbs inside me. If only I had a brand new story idea I think it would explode onto the page in a way I’ve never experienced before. I know I have untapped regions inside me. I know I am capable, like many writers, of microseconds of brilliance. I feel like at this moment I could achieve so much more.
Is it mass hysteria? Is it brainwashing? Is it lunacy? Or is this my trumpet call sounding forth to be the best writer I can be? I hope it’s the latter.
Do you ever feel like you’re ready to emerge from a chyralis born anew?