So, I'm leaving for the second time this month.
Did I tell you that I went to Chicago to sit on a panel for the IHA a few weeks ago? Well, I did. It was interesting and I met some pretty mamas who love Trader Joes and panic about hydrogenated oils as much as I do. The most eventful thing about it was that I went on an airplane and stayed in a hotel in a faraway city ALL BY MYSELF.
You would think that kind of thing would be fabulous, but all I did was miss my family and bother Kurt for phone pictures of the girls.
They are really just that irresistible.
I'm flying out on Thursday morning to attend the Blogher Writer's Conference in NYC. (I'm volunteering at the registration desk, so if you're there, please be sure to say hi!)
I'm not really sure what it is people do at writer's conferences. I'm not really sure what I should have prepared ahead of time. I don't really know what an "elevator pitch" is. All I know is that I have a shiny, wrapped up and polished little book in my hands, I have an unmarketable angle on it (or so I've heard), I solid query letter (or at least I think so) and I've heard that if you're looking for a magical, writerly shot in the buns, writer's conferences are the place to be.
It feels brave sometimes, to have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, and doing it anyway.
I like being on planes. I press my nose against the window.
I like checking into hotels and saying, "Oh, yes. I'm here on business."
It feels like I'm a kid playing a game where I wear a fake mustache and my mom's high heels. Not that you'd ever catch me in a pair of heels, but whatever. You know what I mean. Wish me luck on not being figured out, again.