Well, dear readers, here I am in the Big Apple--aching arms, swollen feet, overwhelmed senses and all. I've just survived my first time at a Romance Writers of America Conference. This year, it was held in New York City where taxi drivers only need two things: strong brakes and loud horns. They don't need to know how to count since they're zooming five-abreast on a four-lane street. Nor do they need driver's licenses.
Okay, I may have exaggerated with that remark. But let me tell you, they've got plenty of hootzpa (did I spell that correctly?). My feet swell when I travel, and I was having a hard time getting into an SUV taxi. It was easy for Calvin with his long legs, but my shorter, chubbier ones were struggling. The driver cupped my big behind and all but tossed me into the back seat. Then had the nerve to add $1.50 to our bill for "extra handling."
Crowds aren't my thing. Paris is as busy as I like. NYC surpasses that, by far. So why did I come? Effie made me. She wanted to meet the editor at Random House who thought I should tone down her existence in my third Highlander shifter book. She's a mess, Effie is. To say she's a pistol wouldn't do her justice.
Strange how I've written a series of contemporary Scottish romances, and the most popular character is a pink-haired grandma who wears pink pelican bedroom slippers. Yes--hangs head--that's me, trying to pull off Effie at my signing.
I felt rather insignificant among the "big name" authors. I mean, who am I? My nerves got the better of me before we left Virginia. How could I ever stand out? Effie shoulder bumped me. "Buy a cheap pink wig, make some pelican slippers, and I'll just show ya." Sometimes it's good to listen to your characters. Sometimes, it's not...
People flocked to me. I suppose they figured if I was crazy enough to dress like this, I must write a doozy of a story. Effie had a ball. I'm glad she did...she dragged me here.