Two years ago I attended my first Spring Fling conference, hosted by Chicago North RWA, and secured the friendship of my dear Broken Writers. Many tasty adult beverages were happily consumed. I was looking forward to the release of What a Scoundrel Wants, which was still eight months away. I was just starting the third "Scoundrel" book, with high hopes for it--which have yet to pan out. Oh well. That's how publishing goes...and that's about the speed of it, too. Glacial.
But then, these last two years have zipped on by! Time is weird that way.
About three minutes ago I convinced myself that I was on the verge of a heart attack. Chest pains. Breathlessness. Gosh my body does not deal well with stress. And there's nothing I need to be stressed about! This should be like going to my mom's house. That's how comfortable I am with the members of my chapter and with my responsibilities this weekend. Eat at a VIP dinner? Moderate for people I respect and enjoy? Present a workshop I know inside out? Sign my lovely, lovely books? Yup, I can do all that pretty damn well!
I think it's the strange ritual of it. Packing jewelry, high heels, eye shadow, and new clothes can only mean one thing...conferences! I get nervous about leaving the kids, although there's no need. Keven will sort them out just fine, and I'll enjoy the break from the routine. And this isn't even the big one. Next week's trip to RT in Columbus will be even more outrageous, so I might as well just get used to the idea of being excited and crazy and apprehensive.
Here I am, a neurotic individual. Can't be helped. I hope everyone has a great weekend. I know I will, no matter what my accelerated heart rate tells me. Let's bring on those tasty adult beverages and take a bloomin' chill pill. That's the ticket.