I'm into a month of conference frenzy - and I'm not complaining, not at all. I love going to conferences,
I love seeing old friends, making new ones, I love sitting at the bar with other writers and talking about writing, I love sitting at the bar with other writers and talking about life.
I love exploring new cities - this year Dallas, last year Atlanta (those weren't the only cities I went to, just the only cities I hadn't been to before).
I love going to workshops (not a lot because I get overwhelmed) because I always, no matter how many workshops I've been to, I learn something new.
I love buying books by writers I've met and discovering new writers I love. I love talking to writers I've enjoyed for years and realizing that not only are they wonderful writers, they're really nice people.
I love airports - I know, I know, it's kind of a sick love, really kind of a creepy love, but I can't help myself. I love the stores, the bookstores, the restaurants, the people rushing to meet someone or rushing to go off somewhere. There are a million stories in an airport and I'd be happy to sit there for hours just watching those stories unfold.
I love packing my suitcase, getting ready to go, thinking about what to take and what not to take, and always taking either just a little too much or a little too little. I can't seem to hit the exact right balance - maybe because sometimes I'm going for two days and sometimes I'm going for ten.
I love the anticipation of the trip, wondering who I'll meet, what wonderful things will happen to me, who will sit next to me on the plane, what great new food I'll get to try.
I love the trip itself. I don't work in the airport or on the plane, and I love that time where there's nothing I really have to do. I can have a glass of wine and watch the people go by, I can read a book or a newspaper or simply do nothing. I find that incredibly satisfying.
So, yes, I'll be busy, yes, it'll be frantic, but I know I'm going to have a wonderful time and I can hardly wait.