Heading to a romance-writers’ retreat in Virginia this weekend (not a writing-retreat, more an info- and inspiration-retreat). I am of at least two minds on these things; it’s so great to talk with other crazy writers about the details of what we do (really, who else cares about “compared with” v. “compared to”?) and to hear what they have been working on all year. But the longer I go without being published—or even close to published—and the more of my friends and cohort who do get contracts year after year, the more I have feelings of not-right, don’t-belong, imposter. After a conference last fall, I was ready to swear off the events altogether until my work rises to print-worthy quality. These things are half-marketing and much networking, so if I don’t have anything indisputably worthy to sell, why go?
But this one is my “home” group, full of friends and low on pressure (except the self-inflicted kind). And this year’s national event in July is right here in D.C., so how could I miss that? And when I do go, I have fun and sure, see jealous-red from time to time, but also hopeful-green—and I do get re-energized to take another whack at that pile of recalcitrant pages there on the desk. And duh, I do learn stuff I can apply directly and indirectly to my work.
So much of writing (and living) is just getting the self out of the way so I can get the work done or the day lived. Blah, blah, blah, someday enlightenment.
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