I love writing conferences. But what is it about them that inspire those of us who labor with words? Why do we pay any price, travel any distance, to spend days on end in nondescript conference centers?
Like visceral fanatics returning to the temple of our muses, we cluster in rooms that are either too hot or too cold, hoping to glom on to the tiniest bit of training or wisdom to advance our craft. Pressing our sleep deprived minds into unwilling service after nights of literary abandon in quiet hotel rooms. Only to awake with a song of joy in our hearts for being in the company of lonely souls with tired eyes.
Perhaps that is all it really is: a passion for prose that transcends countries and creeds. One that turns complete strangers into lifelong friends through the magic of plot and characterization. A shuffling horde, supporting each other through rejection after rejection. Laughing through the pain until the golden day, one of us, finds acceptance in the form of paper and glue.
We are writers.
We love what we do.
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