I'm not going to a writers conference this year.
This makes me sad on about forty-seven levels.
When I'm at a writers conference I can truly be me.
Okay, not around any editors or agents.
But around other writers. My peeps.
Even though I get an occasional wild-eyed look from other writers, I still feel in my element, understood, even...dare I say, accepted.
This is why I'm NOT going.
No, smarty-pants, I haven't been banned from Dallas.
I don't have a book to pitch.
I wrote one during the NaNoWriMo contest. I submitted it to a contest at ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) and I didn't get a great response.
This doesn't surprise me. I wrote a story, but I didn't pump my blood, sweat or tears into it. Nor did I study the genre. Not only did I not study, I don't read the genre. The overall results of the comments and scores I received put me solidly in a C+ range and I don't know that I care to go for the A with this particular story.
I'm co-writing a humorous cozy mystery with one of my best friends. She gets me. I love what she writes very well, and that she thinks I'm funny.
But this story was pitched last year and the proposal still simmers on an editor's back-burner. We both plan to finish, but life has gotten in the way, and the novel still needs some serious surgery.
Based on last year's conference behavior, I know what my focus would be...my friends. Not that this isn't a great thing. Networking is necessary.
But as beneficial as the classes and teachers have been for my writing craft...I need to focus on putting that into practice.
So, I'll tell you what I did instead. Later.
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