A few months ago I spent a weekend at the family cabin and did a lot of reading, mostly on the subject of getting published. On the way home I was resigning myself to the fact that I may have to attend a writers’ conference – or seven – if ever I want to see my work in print. Not really my thing. Other people and all that. But, alas, it may be one of those crucial pieces of the publishing puzzle.
I went home, not yet ready to tell my husband that I thought, just maybe, that I might want to spend a whole lot of money we don’t have to skip off and hang with my writer-peeps in some exotic and far-flung locale. Let’s not get crazy.
Two days later I received in the mailbox a fancy postcard invitation to A Weekend with Your Novel. Close to home, cheap by the standards I had been reading about, and best yet, nearby my brother’s digs (free lodging!). First mailing I’ve ever gotten. Only one since. No idea where they got my name, but it was all sounding a little providential, if you hold with that sort of thing.
One last hurdle to clear. What will the man who makes the dough think of my trucking around, spending his hard-earned cashola, with a half-finished novel, and no guarantees whatsoever that our money will be recouped in the next decade, or ever? Turns out, he’s my biggest fan, and sent me packing with a smile on his face. That kind of backing sure is nice.
So here I am, sitting in a convention center in Madison, about to ride the elevator down to the opening of my very first writers’ conference. Makes my belly roll over just a little.