Alas, I will not have web access for a few days, so this is it for me.

Hair, nails, and clothes: $500
Flight and hotel: $1300
Going to San Francisco, baby: Priceless!!!

Not quite as bad as snakes…but still. Yuck.

Lately, there’s been a lot of talk on writer blogs about conference clothes. People are freaking out, and I can’t quite understand this. Yeah, I made a huge packing list, but I only truly obsessed over the dress, because hey, I could end up on stage. I think I’ve got my wardrobe covered, as well as my attempt at sounding coherent during my editor appointment.

My problem now is claustrophobia and long flights. My max air time up to this point has been about three hours.  To get to SF, I’ll be flying an hour just to get to my connecting flight, and then it’s four straight hours to Cali. While I’m *totally* excited about stepping foot in California, I’m not so thrilled about sitting on a plane for that long. It makes me think of the MRI fun I had a couple of months ago, except the airline won’t offer any sanity-saving sedatives.

I know, you people coming from Australia think I’m a big wuss and should suck it up. But now you know why I’ve never visited Australia. So other than the obvious answer of “reading”, what are y’all doing on the plane to entertain yourselves? (Am I the only one who just had a dirty thought?) All I can think of right now is the iPod. I can listen to a lot of music, but my ears might occasionally need a break.

Oh, btw, I had this conversation with my mother today, during the usual discussion about why I’m spending so much money to go to this conference when winning won’t even guarantee a book contract:

Me: “I’d get to give a speech. You know, Nora Roberts will be in the audience. Can you imagine giving a speech in front of her? Who would pass that up?” [of course, Nora might have other plans, but I know she's been there in the past, so I'm milking this]

Mom (apparently clueless that mega bestsellers are in fact members of RWA and I do come into contact with them): “Why would she be at the unpublished awards?”

Me (mouth open in total disbelief): “The published awards are at the same time. It’s the SAME CEREMONY. DUH.”

“Ohhhh….”

Told ya nobody understands what a big deal this really is, LOL. Except you writers, whom I’ll be hugging with gratitude in 9 1/2 days!

How amazing is this?

See the picture on the lower screen? That, my friends, is a Harlequin novel (in brand new e-book format) on the mega-mega-supertron in Times Square. Holy wow. And people say romances aren’t real books. You can call me trashy all day long if I have a chance of ending up there someday!

This is the dress, except mine is yellow. Very yellow.

Two years ago, when I believed I had a better chance of winning the lottery than finaling in the Golden Heart, the contest was tied with getting published on my list of writing goals–right there at the top of the page in bold, underlined letters, the two things I dreamed about endlessly but didn’t actually believe would happen. When RWA released the list of finalists each year, whether I had entered or not, I’d just stare at my category and memorize the names, wondering what it must be like to be that good. To get that much publicity. To be plastered on a ginormous screen in front of two thousand people. How cool.

What talent I might have had seemed microscopic compared to the writers graced with the title Golden Heart Finalist, the chosen few among a vast number of entries in this prestigious competition, the contest of contests, the one not to be entered unless you’re ready for publication. Or so I’d heard.

In ‘07, getting the call that I’d finaled was as shocking and thrilling as I had always imagined. I was in the car, because I’d forced hubby and kids to take me out of the house so I wouldn’t have to endure the massive online celebrating when I didn’t make it. (What, you think I could just stay away from the ‘net for a day? Not likely!) The calls were supposed to go out at noon my time–my cell rang at 12:08. Caller ID said out of town and I knew. Holy sh**! (This year I stayed home so I’d actually be able to hear the call if it came, unlike last year when the caller’s words were muffled by road noise and kids babbling in the backseat.)

So yeah, this year the call came again. Same book–significant revisions (thank you Wanda!), new title, revamped category. Do I know why this story finaled once, much less twice? Heck, no. In fact, if you judged it and would care to tell me, I’d love to hear it. What I do know is that finaling is not impossible, and I’m glad I sent off that entry form no matter how pathetic the odds seemed. I know that a 20-something writer, barely out of college with a dream that kept growing while her diploma collected dust, can play with the big–uh, talented–gals. And they aren’t, in fact, so untouchable and goddess-like (well, goddess-like, maybe…). They’re extraordinarily supportive and kind women who share the dream and the highs and lows that go with it. I’m so proud to be a part of last year’s 007s and this year’s Pixie Chicks.

Of course, some things change between the first final and the second. The first is like the first of anything else: awesome. Thrilling. Can’t stop thinking about it, certain it’s going to change your life for the better, sure there’s nothing more amazing in the world. You. Are. The. Bomb. Where are the flowers? The champagne??

The second is more realistic: okay, this is really cool, but I won’t be getting a contract tomorrow. I still get to wear a pretty dress, though, and talk with Dream Editor face-to-face. I am a total professional who does not expect flowers and champagne. Cough.

What never changes: what goes on in a finalist’s head during those final moments of the ceremony before her category is announced. Oh my God this is so cool I would so love to win, but wow I hope I don’t win because I really don’t want to go on stage. But what if I do, what in the world will I say? I sort of wrote a speech but I didn’t think I’d need it so I didn’t quite memorize it and I didn’t write it down because I had no place to put it and oh, crap, why did I pick these shoes? I don’t have a chance in hell of making it up those steps in these shoes. Who decided to put steps there for a bunch of nervous women in long dresses and high heels? Why not a ramp or something? Not like it matters because I’m not going to win and I won’t have to worry about it anyway. Why couldn’t they tell us ahead of time who the winner is so we can be more prepared? Geez I’m glad I skipped dinner because I’m about to throw up. If my husband doesn’t get a good picture of me on that big screen, he’s on the couch for a week. No, a month. Definitely a month.

In his introduction of No Plot, No Problem, Chris Baty–the guy who invented NaNoWriMo–makes some interesting observations about writers. I’m paraphrasing because I read the book yesterday and don’t have a copy of it with me, but he says novelists have a profound understanding of the human experience, which I tend to agree with. You can’t write effective fiction without emotion. Heaps of it.

But before I could feel sufficiently impressed by that statement, the next paragraph went on to pin novelists as antisocial people who haven’t cut their hair since the 80s and are the only ones in the entertainment industry who can work after we’re old, fat and ugly.

Say what?

Now, he was talking about 1999, when he first started writing, so I’ll assume this ridiculous stereotype came from his younger, much dumber less-informed persona. Because while I won’t be modeling Victoria’s 32AAAs any time soon ever, neither I nor any author I’ve met are old, fat, *or* ugly. In fact, I see my hairstylist so often I practically write his paycheck, and I don’t even have to bribe my husband into bed. lol

Granted, novelists have quirks, but not ones that involve living in a cave and neglecting personal hygiene. Off the top of my head, the strangest things I do are:

- survive on caffeine (okay, Mr. Baty’s right about that one!)
- drool helplessly when faced with a selection of fresh writing supplies
- get twitchy/hyperventilate when I’m separated from my computer for too long
- have conversations with myself while working out scenes of dialogue
- become so attached to my characters they start to feel real
- develop unhealthy obsession with need to stare at research inspirational photo of latest hero (see Grant post)

What quirks help you make your living?