I’ve pitied my husband many times for having to listen to my constant talking. I’m a talker, it’s true. I spent time with my nose against the wall in the line-up of shame in elementary school for this offense. Served a mortifying detention in 5th grade. Can’t go to movies because it requires shutting up and sitting still. So, my penchant for excitement overflow is well-established.
Enter the Romantic Times Convention in Chicago beginning this week. My writing partner and I have the countdown clock on overdrive until the moment we toss cocktail dresses, cute shoes, and postcards featuring our books into her van and hit the road. Did I mention I can’t wait? My husband has heard nothing but RT talk for weeks.
I have reasons. Good reasons for zinging with anticipation. I’ve been to the convention before, but I was a wanna-be then. This time, I have two published novels under my belt. I plan to promote them a little, perhaps sign a few at the ebook signing, and strive toward my currrent Number One Goal: get an agent.
I’ve set up pitch appointments, polished my elevator pitch, and tried to compose a facial expression that sells me as a great potential client. Most importantly, I have a completed novel that I’m dying to shop somewhere.
Will I come home with free books? Yep. Happy memories? Yep. Sore feet? Yep. An agent? I’ll sure try.