There Will Be Wine

There are a number of lists and blogs running the Internet gauntlet this week to deconstruct the RWA National Conference. Who am I to deny you mine?

I was a newbie at nationals or, as my line went all week, I was a Nationals Virgin. Had to be something left, right? Despite extensive planning and a last minute freak out, I wound up flying by the seat of my pants as usual and made it out exhausted, exhilarated, and ready to rock 'n roll the WIP.

Look! Highlights! Preeetttyyyy.

Start Off Right 
There's no better way to start of a conference, especially as a newbie, than with a night spent at Lady Jane's Salon. The wonderful monthly event for the celebration of romance fiction hosted a special event in honor of RWA with 6 – count 'em, 6! – bestselling writers including co-founder Leanna Renee Hieber, Diana Love, Karen Rose, Carrie Lofty, Sarah MacClean, and the incomparable Eloisa James. The upper room of Madame X bar was crammed cheek to jowl with writers and readers including several online friends. A highlight for me was a lovely chat with historical romance writer Joanna Bourne who could not have been more delightful.

Wonder Roommate
Be it camp, college, or marriage, the roommate is key. I won the bloody lottery with my roommate for RWA. She found me through my post on the RWA roommate board and I will thank her for that for the rest of our lives. If one of us said "I like X" the other immediately said "me too!" (though we both loathe Y for reasons I won't disclose here). We quickly realized there was nothing either of us could say that wouldn't make the other guffaw. Highlights in conversation included "Honey, while I'm sure the proportionate size of rats' balls is fascinating, I just want to watch Tom Hanks talk to Conan and go to bed" and "I know he's too young and I don't care," and "it's too difficult to take the straps off the bed every time" and "oh honey, soon as he walks out on screen, I'm unzipping my pants."

I'll leave it to all of you to decide who said what. Hint: contrary to common belief, they all did not come from me.

Adapt, adapt, adapt
No schedule could survive the madness of a national conference intact. For example, as soon as Wonder Roommate told me the books at publisher book signings were FREE (be still my thundering heart), those events skyrocketed to the top of my must do list. There's your list of things to do and then there are the things you actually do. Those are usually the ones you remember always.

No Matter How Long You Take to Plan Your Footwear (3 months) or How Many Shoes You Pack (*cough* 11 pairs *cough*), You Will Only Wear the Lands End Saddle Shoes and the Foot Smart Sandals Because Dear Lord, Will Your Feet Hurt

That one is pretty self explanatory I think.

Do Not Hesitate If You Recognize Someone You Want to Meet 
Many writers are introverts. I am not one of them, which likely surprises none of you. But I do have an instinct to shy away from promoting myself to someone especially if it involves a cold introduction. Never mind that these were not technically cold intros as I had conversed with many of these people, sometimes repeatedly, on Twitter and Facebook. Name recognition was likely if not a given. But the possibility of a crushing reception squelches the better impulses of the best of intentions.

Right from the beginning, I had to check myself from the "I'll do it later" excuse and call out to people as they passed by. In every single case, I experienced something wonderful. In some instances, I forced myself to follow up with a repeat cold intro at the end of the week to reiterate the early conversation. This is ballsy stuff for many of us, myself included. But it must be done. 

Here's a secret: it gets easier. Gird your loins and stick out your hand. You won't regret it.


Everyone Needs a Secret Weapon
This fan was mine. Churned through every AA battery I brought with me but was the best buck fifty I've spent all year, especially in the fifth ring of hell that was the Literacy Book Signing. Hundreds, nay, thousands of writers and readers crammed into a double ballroom breed a whole bunch of heat, and not only because of the man titty covers.

 



 I threw this bag in a bag into my bag at the last minute and it was a Godsend at every single signing. By the end of each it was hemorrhaging books but held strong and retracted as soon as said books were dumped on my bed. Again.

Harlan Coben Is a Riot 
Somehow I missed the fact that Harlan Coben was doing a panel on suspense with Lisa Jackson. Fortunately, I realized my lapse in time. Besides being big, bald, and bestselling, he is a very funny speaker. Too many speakers brought the funny this week. I'm sensing a theme there.

Among other great quotes and bon mots, Coben said, "when you write and love to write, there's such a temptation not to write," an observation to which I can completely relate. He also advised, "Don't jump on a trend. Just write the story. Don't worry about pages, etc. Write what you love, not what you think the audience will want." This was a sentiment shared over and over this week.

You Will See the Same Six (Fantastic) People All Week and Never Glimpse the Other Six You Wanted to See
The "six" is a random number, but the fact is I routinely saw the same people (who are fabulous), but never saw a (growing) handful of people I was keen to meet in person. I'm choosing to see this as a chance to put those missed people at the top of the list for next year's conference.
 
You Can Steal the Mustard 
This is not a euphemism. I got this mustard with my pretzel at XX pub (name redacted because I'd like to go back someday – they have hard cider on tap). It's so strong and delicious; it'll clear out your sinuses with one dollop. Loverly. No way I was leaving it behind. In fact, after I finish this post, I'm getting a soft pretzel out of the freezer and slopping some mustard on it. Yum.


If You're Not Published, You're Missing Out 
That's the hard truth of it. A pre-published writer myself, I was amazed to realize part of the reason I wasn't seeing several people was because they were all involved in "pubbed" author activities. For my first national conference, my focus was on networking and workshops. The networking gets a little difficult when the people who you wish to talk to are off at published author events. It's like there's a secret password being whispered just beyond my hearing. What this does though is only make me more determined to be published for next year's conference.

I hate missing out.

That said my dance card was yet well and truly full. There is plenty to do for the pre-pubbed writer, fret not. I loved meeting the authors I chat with on Twitter and Facebook, putting faces to monikers I can spell correctly without looking. Highlights included Kate Noble saying, "I know, I follow you on Twitter" and Eileen Dreyer's lovely ego stroke "I love talking with you online" among many, many others. People question whether social marketing works, whether relationships online can carry through to real life with any sense of veracity. I'm here to tell you they absolutely do.

No Matter What, Eventually the Jersey Always Comes Out

Post party, I was with a gaggle of women happy to share a cab back to the hotel. Two of the ladies were from Canada, including the lovely author Julianne Maclean. At my suggestion, we went up to the NE corner of Broadway and 23rd Street to maximize our taxi-hailing chances. I saw an SUV taxi pull up on the NW corner and yelled "go now. We have to get that one." Immediately, these two ladies set off to cross Broadway, not noticing that the light was against them. I jumped into the crosswalk to follow, hoping to buy some extra time for them to make the corner. Traffic was blessedly light, but – of course – two cars barreled down on us, horns blaring, one disgruntled older man wailing on the dang thing till the Jersey came out and I yelled, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut up already!" Safely on the corner, Julianne looked at me and said, "You are definitely from Jersey."

You can take the girl out of the diner…

Don't try to hide who you are. Your inner Jersey or Montana or Michigan or Iowa will come out and you will be all the more memorable for it, hopefully in a good way. And on that note…

Ready to Turn on a Dime for Anything

Jersey from 19th floor of Flat Iron Building

I was thrilled to reconnect with people all week with whom I once worked, either as an assistant at Avon Books or promotion manager at Bantam Dell both oh so many years and, let's face it, significant pounds ago. I had hoped to see them and was delighted that (most) remembered me. A great friend, with whom I hadn't spoken in some time, immediately invited me to the St. Martin's Press cocktail party at their offices in the Flat Iron Building as her guest. The short story is I wound up in a limo with 9 other women (all friends with one another) including 2 bestselling authors, 1 Golden Heart (the RWA award for the best unpublished manuscript in its category) nominee and 2 agents, one who announced at the end of the ride that I was very funny. You can bet your bippy I'll be querying her!

You can't plan for this stuff. You simply have to be able to turn on a dime and make the most of the opportunities that present themselves and when you're standing in the taxi line and the bellhop says, "I have a limo for 10" and someone shouts "we have 9!" be ready to say "I'll be your 10!" Wonderful things can – and did! – happen.

Taking over world from CEO's desk

Since I came home with enough books to make a cabinet maker weep, I'm going to offer a pair of books from Rita-award winning author Karen Rose (though not the signed one for which I wrote back cover copy). Leave a comment, tell me your favorite moment of Nationals or, if you didn't go, which author you'd most like to see at a signing, or even simply what book you're reading now. I'll pick a winner on Saturday and one randomly chosen commenter will receive the books.


Disclaimer: I am not being compensated for this giveaway in any way, shape or form, except by the countless hours of enjoyment I receive from reading.

Oh, ALL RIGHT!

I will always remember 2002 as a Very Bad Year. Not the entire year - January to May rocked the house. I had a great job as promotion manager at Bantam Dell Publishers, a division of Random House in NYC, that I loved. I was enjoying my single late 20s in the city and, most especially fabulous, I took myself to Italy that April.

But then July arrived and I entered an extended period of unemployment, heartache, drama, and woe.

Ever since, I have looked back at that year as a watershed. I have railed against the Lord for those events and many that followed. I have begged to know why my life and plans alone were sacrificed for family needs, why (when I finally got my current job) I had been relegated to an uneventful job where my training and experience had no place to flourish, why I was continually blocked from changing my circumstances professionally, why I wasn't allowed to go back to the publishing industry I loved, why I had a job but no longer a career. Why, why, why.

This morning, as I was again late for work due to - stuff - I was hanging up my cell phone after alerting my boss to my delay and found myself marveling (not for the first time) at my good fortune. Had I managed to shift from the creative side of my agency to the account side (as I had endeavored to due two years ago in an effort to re-enable my career), I'm certain I would have been fired long ago for absenteeism or continued lateness or some other (probably valid) reason caused by the erratic life I've had this year with my mother's long-term illness and hospitalization. But my boss has been unbelievably supportive, allowing me to make up time and working with my erratic schedule whenever possible, and she and my colleagues have repeatedly pitched in to cover my account when I could not.

Then today, I read that Random House has been hemorrhaging big name authors lately. It's been having trouble for some time, evidenced most greatly when parent company Bertelsmann's CEO was ousted last year. Now RH has lost several recognizable names, two of whom (Iris Johansen and Tami Hoag) were directly managed by Bantam Dell. Big time authors. Besides being a longtime reader of these two authors, I had also worked on book campaigns for both of them - both hardcover and mass-market books - while employed at Bantam Dell.

And I thought: Oh. Crap.

After reading that news update this morning, my brain quickly flipped through the last six years. I could see how loosing my job at Bantam Dell in 2002, while devastating, was infinitely better than being there (or somewhere else in publishing) today and facing the current marketplace, especially considering our national economic meltdown. Instead, I have 5 years invested in my current company, the longest I ever been at a job in my whole life. I'm pulling down a higher salary (however limiting) than anything I could have maintained in publishing (finances in the publishing world are typically about 30% below other industries), which is especially helpful now that I'm supporting my mother. And while there will be shocks felt everywhere from these economy issues, here at least, there's less immediate fear of job loss. For now.

During those six years, I had to believe that the Lord had a plan for it all. How could I be a good Christian if I didn't? There had to be a reason for my suffering and sacrifice, a purpose I simply could not see but that might someday be revealed to me. I knew the lingo. I got the theology. I mouthed the platitudes. I had to be patient. I had to wait.

I really suck at patience and waiting.

It's much harder to believe in the dark emptiness of an aching night filled with pain. I still railed. I still begged. I cultivated festering anger and dissatisfaction. And that 's not all in the past tense. But in that revelatory moment this morning, I could see how the Lord worked through these trials and personal losses to set me up for what's happening now. My heart might still yearn for things lost that I valued so greatly, but I could now see and be grateful for His unfathomable, far-flung vision so massively greater than my own.

Well, maybe not too grateful.

I could feel Him smiling at me this morning, that gentle, knowing look when a recalcitrant child finally gets it. I could hear Him in my head offering a mild rebuke with a slightly taunting "See?" (though I'm betting the taunting aspect came more from my own inner voice than a holy discourse with my creator.) To which I, of course, responded in my normal, humble, repentant (ahem) way -

"Oh, ALL RIGHT!"

I Remember This Day

I remember this day. I remember it every year. I remember it every day. I remember it when I don't even realize that I"m remembering it.

I remember the sky, so very blue, so beautiful and clear. I remember the fast clip down the hall to my manager Carolyn's office. I remember her phone ringing as I entered and turned on her television. I remember the slow gather behind me as more co-workers filtered in. I remember the updates, the repeats, the shared shock. I remember seeing the North Tower tilt and saying "Guys? Guys?! Is the tower tilting?" and their response, "No, it's the camera that's tilted." I remember watching the camera right itself. I remember the plumes of smoke. I remember the shock of the second plane hitting the South Tower. I remember seeing that fireball live. I remember the next time the tower tilted. I remember that it wasn't the camera that time. I remember that my supervisor Sarah cried.

I remember the fear that NYC landmarks were under attack. I remember the strong voice of my vice-president directing us to leave. I remember hearing that the bridges and tunnels were closed. I remember the few e-mails and voice- mails that got through before communications broke down. I remember standing outside my office on 42nd Street. I remember Annette saying, "Come with us." I remember Sarah making sure I had a place to go.

I remember the surreal trek cross-town to Second Avenue. I remember feeling like I was on a movie set. I remember food carts with radios blaring as we crossed Madison Avenue. I remember the cell phones not working.

I remember the long downtown stretch of Park Avenue. I remember the glimpse of the pummel of smoke at its far end.

I remember being hungry. I remember stores being closed. I remember crowding into a corner pizzeria. I remember the first bite of hot and fresh pizza.

I remember saying that at least the planes were empty.

I remember having to be told that there were passengers on those planes.

I remember walking back cross-town from Second Avenue to Tenth Avenue to reach the ferry. I remember the closed stores - stores that are never closed - McDonalds, Duane Reede, CVS. I remember being thirsty.

I remember the quiet.

I remember the lines of people waiting for the ferry stretching for 10 or 20 blocks in either direction.

I remember the clothes I was wearing.

I remember trekking back to Second Avenue to spend the night at Annette's. I remember buying food and wine later that night. I remember finally reaching my family on the phone. I remember waking up throughout the night. I remember getting a foot cramp and pushing my foot against the wall to relieve it, hoping I wouldn't wake Annette up.

I remember voices outside the window early in the morning. I remember hearing them speak about giving blood and volunteering. I remember walking to the Path Station at 34th street.

I remember it still being so quiet.

I remember trying to find the right bus at Hoboken Station. I remember an obnoxious, unhelpful bus driver. I remember searching each street as we got into Weehawken, afraid I would miss the stop, unfamiliar with that part of town. I remember getting off too early. I remember more walking. I remember finally getting home. I remember seeing my cats and flopping on my bed. I remember my roommate being home and safe.

I remember the many phone messages from across the country. I remember returning calls. I remember the relief in the voices of everyone I called. I remember being afraid to turn off the television.

I remember going back to work on September 13th.

I remember my father telling me of our friends lost on United 93.

I remember the RISE UP billboard on the helix coming up from the Lincoln Tunnel. I remember hearing Bruce Springsteen's song in my head every time I looked on it. I remember latching on to that every day. I remember the Empire State Building lit up in red, white, and blue. I remember the day it went back to its regular gold. I remember that I couldn't think of what it was meant to represent; I'd become so accustomed to red, white, and blue, I no longer recognized normal.

I remember when the billboard went back to advertisements.

I remember, that February, climbing the stairs from the subway at Ground Zero for the first time and not knowing where to go. I remember all my landmarks being gone. I remember the Red Cross tent. I remember the firefighters from the House of Pain. I remember the laughter. I remember the camaraderie.

I remember crunching debris beneath my feet as a worker lead me, my college roommate Kerry and her husband Matt, an OSHA inspector, onto the sight. I remember trying to visualize the place where I'd work, trying to see Century 21, the Borders bookstore whose opening I'd attended, or Tall Ships pub, and failing. I remember gazing on the empty hole where my career had begun, where my first professional milestones were made, and feeling deeply bereft.

I remember the deep ache in my bones and my feet from the work serving the workers.

I remember listening to radio on every anniversary. I remember hearing the listing of names on the radio as I drove to work. I remember the bells, the moments of silence, the tears, the strength, the continuation of life. I remember watching the live feeds on the Internet. I remember doing this every year.

I listen to them now, recalling these memories. A recitation of names that closes my throat. A memorial of sacrifice.

I've heard it said that New York doesn't allow survivors to forget 9/11.

Thank God for that.

Am I Wearing a Sign?

There are certain things that you expect to see if you spend a lot of time in Manhattan, or any major city really. Excessively pierced and/or tattooed individuals. Homeless people. Street theater and/or musicians. Rats the size of a small tiger. Flamboyantly dressed women or men pretending to be women. Women working to be treated like men. Tourists. The sidewalk preacher who may also a candidate for the loony bin. The Naked Cowboy. Activists passing out flyers. A fake baked chickie, her skin a dark-orange mess, walking like she was all that and a bag of Sun In. A professionally dressed couple macking on each other outside the World Trade Center at high noon. (Oh the stories I spun on that one!)

Public Urination.

For a while there during my tenure in NYC, I felt like I was wearing a sign that said "Please make my day and pee in front of me," because I seemed to be running into that a lot . Perhaps not surprisingly, these events occurred in and around the W. 4th Street subway station on the Blue Line as I was shuffling from work to classes at NYU. The Disneyfied area of midtown would never suffer such high jinx.

The first time was on a stormy day when the steps were slick with torrential rains. A clearly homeless woman had come down the first flight of stairs into the subway station to the covered midway landing and promptly squatted down and released a likewise torrential stream of urine. Just as I was coming up to that same landing from the subway.

Lovely.

Months later, walking up 4th Street towards NYU, a man drunkenly offered profuse apologies as I crossed the street and walked eastwards. "Sorry Miss, so sorry, sorry" he slurred at me. I couldn't figure out why he was apologizing to me until I notice that he was peeing against the side and bumper of a car right there in the middle of the street. I remember disgustedly saying to him "If you're sorry, don't do it," and walking swiftly by.


I mean, you kind of shrug that off as the price of doing business in the big city. But I haven't worked in the city for several years now and despite living in the fairly urban Weehawken for seven years, never had anything like that happen on this side of the Hudson River.

Until yesterday.

My new apartment is in a two-story house made up of two buildings that are connected by a second story bridge. The second building (not mine) houses the garage on the first floor and another apartment above it. It's actually quite and intriguing set up. Underneath the bridge and between the two buildings is an open breezeway connecting the front driveway to the backyard.

My landlord' s husband J looks like a tall Buddy Hackett. He's good natured and pleasant, just a tad odd and a bit eccentric. He seems to be around all the time, wandering around presumably doing upkeep things eschewing the backyard to take his rest in camp chairs set just outside our shared door in the breezeway.

Yesterday evening, I was out back in my own camp chair, enjoying the nearly forgotten pleasure of a summer evening in a backyard. My mosquito lamp was burning while I worked on my laptop in the company of a bottle of Vitamin water. I could hear J from time to time in the breezeway and wasn't surprised when he came through to the back yard. At the last minute, I decided not to acknowledge him as I knew he'd come over and jaw for a while and I wanted to keep writing while I was on a roll.

A few seconds later, I heard a faint buzz-like sound and looked around for any bees that might be swarming around. What I saw was J peeing into the weeds against the back wall of the garage. I confess I gaped for a minute, stupefied at what I was seeing. And then my first thought was "I am not telling my mother about this."

Apparently my new suburban landlord' s husband hasn't quite grasped the idea that there are "other people" living on the property now.

I'm choosing to believe that he didn't know I was there. I certainly didn't announce myself figuring it would only make the situation worse. I know that he likes to enjoy a beer or two once he gets back from his office cleaning job on Sunday, and I figure that probably impaired his awareness.

But come on!!!

What is the deal with people publicly peeing in front of me? Do I need to hang an occupancy sign in the back yard? A his and hers delineation line? A picture of a urinal with a line through it?

Maybe a placard reading "To Pee or Not to Pee - There is NO QUESTION!"