So This Introvert Walks Into a Conference…

Nope, people, it’s not a joke.  This is it.  The deed is done.  The money is paid.  And now I’m getting an ulcer, and I’m pretty sure that by June, I’ll develop an unspeakable case of anal leakage brought on my random bouts of stomach nerves.  But hey, on a positive note, that’ll definitely make me stand out among the other 500 GAZILLION writers that will be at this conference hoping against hope to get the attention of that one agent who thinks they may have a single, teensy scrap of talent.
I’m really doing ok.  I’m going about this in a calm, organized fashion.  I have until June, for God’s sake.  Here’s my plan:
  • Spend the first week in a complete panic wondering what the HELL I have done and babbling incoherently about how I can’t talk to (gasp!) PEOPLE and how can I just walk up and talk to STRANGERS and pimp myself out and holy-cheese-whiz-Batman, I may just crap my pants.  Ok, check that step off the list.  Yay.
  • Next, focus on refining my writing for about 10 minutes.  Then spend about a month telling myself that I am a crappy writer and that I better hope they have a damned good cash bar at this place because I am going to need a lot of fermented grapes to get me through the weekend.  Drunken starving writers are all the rage, I’m pretty sure.
  • Figure out what to wear.  This should be easy because I own nothing but denim.  Crap, I own nothing but denim!  Up until this point in my life, I have been content to live in casual-Friday attire every single day of forever, because, hey, that’s just what we creatives do, and if people don’t like it, they can suck it.  So there.  But I’m thinking that may not be my best approach here.  Make trip to Macy’s sale rack.  Avoid denim.
  • Resume refinement of writing projects in preparation for biggest presentation of my FREAKING LIFE, which, by the way, must be summed up in approximately 3 minutes, leaving approximately 7 minutes for me to be raked over the coals by brutal, cut-throat agent who hates run-on sentences.
  • Resume berating my own writing and comparing it to every other successful writer in the history of mankind, inventing reasons for my writing to end up in the bottom of agent’s trash heap.  Drink wine.
  • Repeat steps as necessary until June.

So, as you can see, I am fully in control and ready to prepare for the single-most EFFING HUGE event of my life.  Because I am such a people person, you know, whenever I crawl out from under my bridge and decide to actually speak to people instead of growl and mumble incoherently about things like pronouns and sentence structure and hiding in tree trunks and such so that I can avoid human contact.  Yep, total people-person.
You guys, don’t tell anyone, but I think I might be having some sort of a nervous reaction. 

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