Houston, We Have a Conference

Just now home from the Houston Writers Guild Conference. Tired enough to sleep in lead boots, but I feel like I just ditched a glass slipper. Andrea Barbosa and Fernanda Brady and Mike Brady and Alicia Richardson and their whole entire posse just knocked it out of the park. I made about 70 new writer-buddies, and I think we collectively blew three weeks' worth of serotonin in about four hours. Getting to share a man-pizza with Liz Larson and a redneck truck-date with Jennie Goloboy on top of all that was just the cream gravy on the chicken-fried steak. Counting the hours until I can go back.

NB: this adorable duo were not the two most important people at the event.
Tragically, they are the only ones I took a picture of.

I tell you what, y'all. You work and you wonder and you sweat and you cry, and then almost out of the blue, somebody who doesn't owe you a single blessed thing hands you a room key and a pretty purple gift baggie and a kindness you'll remember forever, and all of a sudden you could do a thousand more miles right there on the spot. Please remind me of this next time I turn into a mopey doughnut: no quest succeeds without a dose of elvish hospitality, and I-45 runs clean through Rivendell.