Once a year, in a city decided by top-secret ballot and nineteen women who really don’t get paid enough, two thousand romance writers descend upon one designated venue, and thereafter, love, hearts, and dietetically-induced chaos ensues.

It is time for the annual Romance Writers of America concert. The world really has no idea about what goes on at a romance writer’s conference. Oh, the news organizations – don’t get me started — they get all pithy and bodice-ripping, and pull out every cheesy cliché ever written in the name of love, but they don’t see it all.

This year the conference is July 30th-August 2nd in San Francisco, the City by the Bar, uh, Bay. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. The most marvelous thing about the conference is yes, I’ll tell you a secret – most writers are introverts. We could not network our way out of a paper bag, myself included.

There are always the wide-eyed novice writers who have written Chapter 1, and not much else, but they want to learn. They attend all the workshops. They line up to get autographs from Nora, because oh, yes, the Nora attends as well. I was a wide-eyed novice once, but if I may tell you another secret, you never lose that. Deep in her heart, I suspect Nora is still a wide-eyed novice as well, because that’s the thrill of romance.

And besides the novice, there is the writer who is going to analyze her way to New York Times stardom. She has four spreadsheets with her plot laid out, color-coded, mapping out arcs of rising and falling tension. I cannot tell a lie. I hate these people. My eyes shoot green sparks in their direction whenever they are nearby, because I want to have a spreadsheet. I want to have a fully-formed plot that evolves so neat and tidy that my editor can be jazzed by my keen, writing mind.

Alas, I am not.

After the analyst, comes the writer who has just sold. There are two sub-genres of this species. The bounce-off-the-walls type, (riding in an elevator with this species is an experience all its own), and then there’s the cocky I-have-sold-I-now- know-everything-about-the-publishing-business type. I, being the introvert, was the cocky type. I knew I had it made. I knew I was going to hit the list. Someday, baby. It was going to be mine.
Hehehehe…. Oh, yeah, God has a huge sense of humor.

After the first-sales are the disillusioned professionals. Somehow these remind me of a beauty shop in Jersey. Chain smoking, lots of gossip, catty remarks, usually on fashion or hair, and a lot of “I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me,” and then stomp on the cigarette with their stiletto heels and move on to the next party. I do not smoke, but about that gossip part? Okay, maybe once. Or twice. Not a lot, though, because that stuff gets you into trouble.

And then, the highlight of the conference is the goddesses. Those that have ‘made it’ and are no longer subject to ‘worries.’ They have lines upon lines of fans, and remember two thousand names of everyone, and they have an entourage (someday, I really want an entourage, just so I can say, “Oh, my entourage will get it”). Someone very wise told me that all writers have worries, even the goddesses. They just pretend better than the rest.

I think it’s probably true.

I love conference. I hate the networking part, because I suck, and am shy, and if I had my druthers, I would set in my room with a handful of friends, drink wine, and possibly gossip (at least I’m honest about my flaws). However, when I’m at conference, I look at the novices, and I feel the glow, I feel the excitement, and I think, oh, what a lucky novice am I. I get to write romances for a living.

It doesn’t get better than this.