I spent the past two days at my first ever writers’ conference. It was great fun, I met some new people and I won a door prize. Heard some great speakers, too, and came home with my batteries recharged. I’m ready to get serious and finish the first draft of my Regency story. I didn’t pitch, and I’m sort of regretting that now. Even if I didn’t feel in advance that any of the agents or editors who were there would be a good fit for what I write, I should have done it for the practice.
On top of that, I learned an important lesson on the drive home: when starting out from the Albany region with just over a tank of gas, fill up in Ticonderoga. I figured I’d wait just one more exit, because of course there’d be a gas station somewhere close to the interstate, right?
Next exit put me on the road to North Hudson, and they don’t have a gas station. They have houses, and those houses have cars parked in front of them. Those cars need gas, certainly, from time to time, but where they get gas is anybody’s guess. I drove on and on, all the while eyeing my fuel gauge as it inched its way toward the E. The Adirondacks with their limited cell phone coverage and a house every few miles or so were seeming awfully remote. I had to drive about 25 miles to Elizabethtown before I hit a gas station. All I can say is the Sunoco station there must be raking in the bucks with nothing else 25 miles to the south.
And finally, while at the conference, I got a piece of good news. Look. See me there on the list of finalists? I came in third out of sixth. Quite respectable, and I’m very pleased. But not quite as pleased as I was to hit that Sunoco station…