And Elegant Red Nails

“I’m not a stranger,” I said, and pointed to his book. “I’m someone who reads the same authors you do.”― Lemony Snicket,

I’m having my nails done because I want to be impressive or at least make a good impression. So, of course, I selected an elegant shade of red because it looks, well, elegant, and that is who I am going to be for the next few days.

My sister Nancy agreed with both the nails and the persona. 

She said, “Just be yourself. You’ll be fine. Writers are all alike. You’ll sit around drinking coffee, exchanging business cards, and now you have the perfect red nails. You won’t even have to talk.”

“That would be fabulous, but I’d be thrilled if they simply returned my greeting.”

“You’ll have a name tag, just point.”

We laughed. 

Somehow, my publisher talked me into attending the Black Rose Writing Authors Conference in San Antonio, Texas, during a heat wave. It was a last-minute decision. I wasn’t going to go. I’m an introvert, and you know what happened last time I went to a writer’s conference (Ruthless Confirmation). It was absolute horror. 

I wasn’t keen on repeating that experience. 

But my publisher wrote me a nice note, inviting me to go. What can you do? I signed up, but I made Larry go with me. And there we are, standing on the sidewalk at 7:00 a.m. with our matching suitcases, waiting for the Uber to show up. 

The driver pulls up to the curb, and the car looks like it has come straight from one of those illegal sideshow events. I look down the street to see if a cop is following him. There are more dents than I can count, and it seems as if a five-year-old painted the entire car matte black. 

It would be kind to describe the driver as disheveled. His hair is both greasy and uncombed. I’m pretty sure he got dressed in the dark. I have no idea if he’s wearing shoes, and I can’t make myself look.

The interior of the car is worse if that is possible. I open the passenger door while Larry loads the suitcases in the trunk (no dead bodies, thank God), and it moans. I’m not kidding. The upholstery is as dirty and stained as my old couch, and it smells squalid, like when you haven’t flossed in a while, and you dislodge a bunch of crap that has been decomposing in the crevices of your mouth for weeks.

I keep telling myself, breathe through your mouth! Breathe through your mouth.

Larry and I make eye contact, both of us communicating our panic nonverbally. What the hell are we doing? Should we get out while we still can? But the driver takes off before we can finish our silent conversation.

I reluctantly strap myself in because, at every bump in the road, it sounds as if the car is going to fall apart like a bunch of Legos. 

We scamper out of that car as if we have arrived at the gates of hell instead of the departure gate at the airport. Larry grabs our bags. I have the backpacks in a death grip, and we run for the terminal. 

I hope this is not a sign of what is to come.

Hours later, we touched down in San Antonio and decided it might be safer to take a taxi to the Contessa, our home away from home for the next three nights. It was a good call.

After unpacking, we head to the hotel bar for a cocktail. 

Calm down, with the long flight and the time difference; it’s 5:00 p.m. in San Antonio. I’m starving, but Larry thought we should go down and mingle. I would like to add that I have a horrible track record for mingling, but my nails look good. 

There are authors everywhere as if the hotel has an infestation. I see groups chatting on the couches, sitting at the bar, and little tables scattered around the room. 

Larry elbows me in the ribcage and says, “There’s a nice group,” he points, “Go over there and introduce yourself.”

I’m aghast, I say, “Are you insane?” 

He doesn’t give up. “Don’t be a chicken.”

“You go.”

“I will,” and he acts like he’s getting up.

“Sit down, or I’ll go over there and pull the fire alarm.”

He sits back down with a wry smile on his face because he secretly loves it when I’m uncomfortable.

By the way, I am totally fine being called a chicken and acting like one. I’ll even squawk if you want. 

With no uncertainty, I say, “I am here to learn about being a successful author, this is not a popularity contest, it’s a conference.”

“It’s a chance to meet other authors,” he persists.

“It’s awkward.”

“It’s awkward sitting here by yourself.” Hello, he is clearly sitting with me.

After a few stabilizing sips of wine, I pick up my glass with my red nails and bravely walk up to a cluster of writers and say, “Are you all Black Rose Writers?” I know—a stellar opening line. Who could resist me?

Oddly enough, they made room for me to sit with them and proceed to introduce themselves. Thank God, because I was about to faint. I promptly forget everyone’s name. They’re all lovely and welcoming, but as O’keefe says, it’s not enough to be nice. You’ve got to have nerve, and mine are currently frayed. 

Business cards are being passed around like appetizers, but I keep mine in my purse—they are the only ones without QR codes. No one told me!

They plan to take the Riverwalk to a local restaurant for dinner and ask me to join them. I can even bring Larry. 

This group got acquainted at last year’s conference and through interactions on our Black Rose Writing Facebook group. I thanked them for the invitation but returned to the bar because Larry and I decided to grab a quick bite at the hotel restaurant. Squawk, squawk, squawk.

After dinner, we join twenty or so writers milling around the bar, catching up, talking about their books, and watching the 49ers. It turns out that some writers like to talk. I’m grateful.

I like people, I really do, but I like them one at a time, and it’s better if I’ve known them for twenty years. 

I like people like Sara, the woman I met at the last conference in San Francisco, who didn’t reject me. I like people who write, who drink too much coffee, and will spend an entire day editing one sentence. I even like extroverts—people who can talk to anyone about anything for hours on end and never get tired. I like people who know me and love me despite my personality flaws. I like people who can do things that I can’t. I like people who make me laugh. I like kind people. I especially like pet people, even if it’s just a fish. 

The next morning, we checked in, were tagged, and thrown into a room full of chairs. But there is a massive pot of coffee that is as calming as an oasis in a desert. I scan the room, trying to identify the least threatening people to sit with, but the empty chairs are going fast. I find one and plop myself down. 

I’m already sweating, and it’s not even 9 o’clock. 

I land between two of the kindest people in the world, well, maybe not the world, but at least in my world. Pamala Taylor is on my right, and Carol Barreyre is on my left. They’re easy to talk with, fascinating ladies, and both seem entirely at ease in a room full of people, as if hardbacks holding up the flimsy paperback between them.

Reagan Rothe, our publisher, welcomes us, introduces the panel, and chats about Black Rose Writing and his plans for the future. Next year, he’ll publish fewer books and sign fewer new authors, making BRW contracts more coveted and distinguished. 

Reagan continues to adapt his marketing strategies and practices to keep pace with a rapidly changing industry. That might be why BRW is so successful. I just discovered that BRW is listed as one of the top 100 small publishers in the United States. When he opens the floor to questions, I’m amazed at the family atmosphere; issues are raised, support and inspiration are offered, practical advice is given, and endless encouragement ensues. 

We are writers. We’ve experienced rejection, sometimes repeatedly, but Reagan is the one who said yes, and we all appreciate the privilege of being published authors by a traditional publisher like Black Rose Writing. 

Then, he invites the first speaker to the podium. I pulled out a pen and paper but didn’t need them. This was a heartfelt story; you deeply feel his words, no need for notations.

Joe Siple has an incredible story. He’d been writing for about sixteen years. He had stories inside of him that he was compelled to write, but the problem was that all the big publishing houses had rejected his work. But that didn’t stop Joe. He kept at it year after year, driven by a passion for writing and bringing this story to life. 

Black Rose Writing was the first publishing house to offer him a contract, but when the first copies of his book finally arrived, he was scared. Joe told us with a catch in his voice that those books represented years of rejection, and instead of celebrating his accomplishment, he stacked the box in the back of his basement. 

Well, he was in for a surprise. His book has stirred the hearts of thousands of people worldwide, and he is now one of the top-selling authors at BRW. He is amazed, grateful, and ever so humble but hesitant to quit his day job even though he makes more in royalties than salary. 

What an inspirational person with a courageous story and a drive to never give up. His talk was efficacious for us all.

After lunch, another fabulous speaker, Janis Robinson Daly, told us how to utilize public libraries to publicize our books, give talks, and draw people into the library system. 

This is my big takeaway from the weekend. 

I hope to get my book in a few libraries by the end of the year. I might even try to hook a speaking engagement. I know that would be a stretch, but it’s not a goal if it’s easy.

We all enjoyed a delicious lunch provided by BRW, after which a third speaker, Mary Ellen Bramwell, shared her expertise on editing mistakes and how to fix them. After about fifteen minutes, I couldn’t focus. It felt like she was speaking a foreign language. I’m not an editor by any stretch of the imagination, but I took copious notes and refilled my coffee several times. I learned that hiring a professional editor who understands the elements of style is the only way to go. 

Larry is waiting for me at the bar when we are dismissed. He’s halfway into a beer, and I order a medicinal wine to go with my slowly fading anxiety. 

We took a long stroll along the meandering riverwalk. It’s gorgeous. The river is lined with lush landscaping, and pine and oak trees are cleverly lit and shade the path. Restaurants have set up tables along the walk so you can enjoy a view of the river while you eat and people-watch. 

After lingering over an incredible steak dinner for several hours, we return to the Contessa, but no one is lounging around the bar tonight. Okay, I’m relieved. I’m not the only introvert. 

Day two is a half-day. Regan starts by sharing his thoughts on marketing, what happens behind the scenes, and how we can partner with his efforts to make our books as successful as possible. Reagan has created a sense of family in this community. He is affectionately referred to as Uncle Reagan, especially if we want him to pay for something. I was surprised by the warmth and camaraderie I observed between Reagan, his staff, and this room full of writers.  

Next, Mary Ellen talks with us about how authors help authors. We have a chance to ask questions of the rest of the panel, Justin and David, who manage shipping, stats, edits, and create our beautiful covers. Regan ends the conference with raffle prizes, thanks everyone for coming, and announces that he’ll send us information on next year’s conference by October. 

I shoot out of there like I did from our Uber ride to the airport. Larry is waiting for me. 

He says, “Why are you the first one out?”

I say, “They’re all talking.”

“Go back in there and chat with people.”

“I will. I just had to catch my breath.”

Just then, one of the participants approached us, extended her hand, and said, “It was so nice to meet you. And by the way, I love your jumpsuit. Safe travels to you two.”

I take her hand and say, “It was wonderful to meet you, too. Safe travels.”

When she walks away, Larry says, “See, that’s how you do it.”

“Tell everyone I like their outfits?”

I get the look but reenter the conference room to say my goodbyes despite my fears. When I walk up to the podium where Reagan is chatting with someone, I wait for them to finish so I can shake his hand and thank him for encouraging me to attend such a fabulous conference. Reagan is always polite and welcoming, but now I realize he’s as introverted as I am, but he covers well. 

I say my goodbyes to various people as I make my way to the back of the room where Minna is stationed. Minna is Regan’s wife, but she also works at BRW. I got to know her at my book signing in Austin last year. 

I say, “Hi, Minna. It was good seeing you again, and I thoroughly enjoyed the conference.”

She says, “It was good to see you too. You have such a nice energy. I kept looking over at you and smiling.”

Okay, that made my year. I have appealing energy. My nails held up better than I did, but I came away inspired, educated, and excited for Larry and me to get our new manuscript ready for submission.

What I learned about this small group of Black Rose authors is they are the most emotionally aware people I’ve ever met. They’re writers. It is part of their skill set, and that’s why we write. They are safe to talk to, and they support each other while being encouraging and compassionate. This is why you attend your publisher’s conference. 

These are your people.

Before the conference, my girlfriend Sue coached me on how to get to know people. Not so much coached me, but she explained how she approaches people she doesn’t know. She’s quite an adept conversationalist. 

She said, “I ask three questions; if they don’t follow up with one for me, I leave.”

I say hello with no expectations, and if they return my greeting, I consider it a conversational triumph. They’ll have to ask me to leave. 

I’m Living in the Gap, all my children are going to be in the same zip code by the end of this week! We have a family wedding at the lake. I’m over the moon. How’s your week going?

Grow Damn It! is available on Amazon. An anthology of essays about overcoming my fears, strapping myself in, and enjoying the ride of my life. If you already have a copy, grab another and donate it to your local library! Win. Win. 

A bonus story:  Larry and I decided to stay an extra night, so we asked our son-in-law, Tim, for some dinner recommendations. And he did not disappoint. One of his many contacts suggested we try Mexicali; apparently, it’s all the rage. 

Walking into the door of this nondescript restaurant, we ask the hostess if they can accommodate two for dinner. 

She says, “Do you have a reservation?” It’s as if we’re wine-tasting in Napa.

Larry says, “No, we just arrived in town, and your restaurant was recommended, so we thought we’d give it a shot.”

“It’s a price-fixed menu. There are eight courses paired with local wines at $165 per person. Would you like me to see if we can accommodate you?”

“Oh, we didn’t know it was that type of dining experience. I think we’ll try something else. Thank you,” and we head for the door. 

The owner runs after us and says, “There is another option. It is also a price-fixed meal, but only four entries at $85 per person with the same wine pairing. If you are interested, I can see if they can accommodate two more.”

Larry agrees, and she disappears for a minute, returning with an affirmative from the chef. We order a margarita at the bar while we wait for our table to be prepared. They served us our first course at the bar. It was an oyster in the shell, but it was covered with fluffy white foam. There is one for each of us. You sort of down it without seeing what you’re eating, but the flavors delight your taste buds all the way down. 

They move us into the formal dining room. Each dish is beautifully presented, the food tastes like nothing I have ever experienced, and each is delightfully paired with the perfect wine. 

What an incredible culinary experience. It took over two hours. I was thrilled.

Larry was still hungry.

When we returned to the hotel, we ordered a plate of chicken wings (so appropriate) to fill our stomachs. God forbid we go to bed even slightly hungry.