The Reno Report (part four) – try two

Well, gosh darn it, I spent a good long time today detailing the last day of the conference and my Safari shut down, making me lose said post. I’m going to try again, but honestly, I don’t think I have the energy.

SATURDAY

6:30 a.m.: Wake up to the sound of CP Cheryl tap tap tapping… aw, you know the drill by now. Shower, dress, head down to free continental breakfast.

7:30 a.m.: Free continental breakfast. Run into Maggi Landry, who coordinated last year’s Heart of Denver Molly Contest (which I won). That was a swell contest. I remember getting the call in the middle of all the hurricane/new boss from hell/FEMA/ Stiletto Contest crap. When my cell phone rang I was standing outside my SUV, contemplating how far I could drive with half a dozen roofing nails in my front tires. After hearing the new, I jumped around in excitement, and my crew thought I was nuts. My boyfriend brought me roses from the one florist in town whose shop hadn’t blown over.

8:30-9:30 a.m.: Attend Bantam Dell Spotlight, at which sit in cluster of chick litters, who seem determined to get senior editor presenter Shauna Summers to say the title of my book by asking increasingly ridiculous leading questions. Ms. Summers, who has been at Bantam for all of three minutes, has no idea what they are talking about (I’m in a whole different department), and turns to the slightly more dubious pleasure of responding to the usual spate of ridiculous spotlight questions. “Do you like binder clips? Do you take XYZ type of book?” Sigh. Double sigh. Was I the only one listening when she began her talk with the idea that Bantam Dell does not have lines, or slots, or any requirements — just GOOD BOOKS? Attendees, frustrated in this attempt by her responses of “we don’t have any specific requirements, lines or slots. We publish all sorts of books, from karen Marie Moning to Stephen Hawkins” began asking her about her personal life. Triple sigh. I turned back to my notes about the early part of the spotlight, in which Summers waxed enthusiastically about how committed bantam was to breaking out its authors. Begin to imagine my release. Begin to imagine my release. Begin to imagine… hey, where is everyone going? Introduce myself to Ms. Summers and try to explain the situation. Miss my editor. Ah well, next year.

9:30 a.m.: Duck into presentation with Sue Grimshaw, Romance buyer for Borders/Waldenbooks. Learn that she doesn’t handle chick lit, that it’s considered an entirely separate entity. She’s a very cool chica though — actually takes down the names of store managers who are unfriendly to romance and romance authors. Want a job at a Borders? There might be some openings soon. Leave in search of caffeine.

10 a.m.: Wander around aimlessly, feeling energy levels droop. Have short chat with agent, help Rocki St. Claire pick out a present for her son. Also meet Amy J Fetzer who has, hands-down, the most amazingly gorgeous cover I saw all conference for her upcoming military thriller for Brava. The first book in the series has a nice cover. The second book has a cover that’s… woah. Hot. Real Hot. Um… yeah. ::fans self:: It’s gorgeous. After a while, head to lunch.

Noon: Lunch at a table full of chicklitters.. We listen to Susan Elizabeth Phillips, a very funny writer and, I learn, speaker. Lunch is a southwestern chicken (conference chicken, Liz!) salad, which I eat. This turns out to be a mistake.

2 p.m.: Violently ill.

2:15 p.m.: Still violently ill.

2;20 p.m.: On break from being violently ill, catching breath in lounge areaa of ladies room, run into Chris Feehan and daughter, who inform me that CP Cheryl is losing shirt (along with Heather Graham) at craps table. Well, at least she’s not writing for once! Also run into Marley, who tries to convince me to go upstairs and take a nap, promising to wake me in time for my first-ever publisher part, which is at 3 p.m. I agree.

2-something-ish p.m.: Agent calls, waking me up. Have no idea what she said. Hope it wasn’t important. (Was it? Something about foreign rights, maybe? Am I being translated into Urdu?) Drift back to sleep.

2:55 p.m.: Sit bolt upright in bed. (Not, I might add due to the diligent phone-calling of one Mrs. Marley Gibson. Hmph.) Rush about getting ready for Bantam Dell tea party. Feel slightly less violently ill. Throw on rose spray cream silk dress and heels.

3:10 p.m.: Waltz into Bantam Dell party where am greeted by new senior editor of women’s fiction Shauna Summers, who appears infinitely more relaxed now than she did at the spotlight (Perhaps because here she won’t be forced to put on tape her adventures at graduate school?). Shauna hands me button with my name, the name of my title and a release date in 2007 (oops. My book is actually being released JULY 2006 ::insert subliminal message:: Buy (Secret) Society Girl, buy (Secret) Society Girl:: end subliminal message::. Shauna introduces me to some other bantam authors, every one of whom is a household name. Hi, Mary (Balogh). Hi Linda (Howard). Hi, hi, hi. Feel slightly faint, though do not suspect it is due to earlier violent illness. Decide to have some champagne. Champagne is almost like Alka-Seltzer, right? CHAMPAGNE CURES EVERYTHING.

Meet with the editor of Pages magazine as well as a representative from the publicity department at Bantam Dell. She is very excited about my book and we chat about some possible publicity ideas. begin to imagine my book. Begin to imagine my book. Begin to imagine… feel better. Decide to try one of the little tea sandwiches provided. It goes over well, so decide to have a few more. Settle myself on sofa with tea sandwiches and champagne glass full of sparkling water (don’t want to push it). Speak to Micahlynn Whitt, new associate editor of women’s fiction, whom I first met in June at Random House. Micahlynn asks me how I’ve been enjoying conference.

I proceed to stick my foot in my mouth.

“Great,” I say, and add an offhand, not-at-all serious: “I’ve been spending a lot of time flashing my pink ribbon at people who rejected me.”

“Oh, you mean like me?” says the agent sitting next to me.

Agent is actually lovely person, wonderful agent, for whom I bear nothing but warm feelings and good wishes. Agent is actually last agent to have sent me a rejection letter prior to getting offer from current agent and selling book. Agent actually never saw project that earned me new agent and sale. Agent actually wrote me long, involved, very sweet rejection letter about older project. If were still looking for an agent, would definitely consider this agent again.

No, not like her. Like the opposite of her. Like editor who sent me three page rejection letter, proceeded to rewrite every aspect of the next three projects I sent her then stood me up at our meeting in Dallas. Like the contest judge who told me I didn’t know how to write. Like the agent I introduced myself to in New York who spent the whole time looking over my shoulder to see if there was anyone more important around.

I try to surgically remove foot from mouth (a lost cause, I believe) and wonder how to escape. Micahlynn does. Look for my agent, who is actually very good friends with the agent sitting beside me. Decide best course of action is to discuss in great detail writer friends of mine who are clients of agent. Begin to *really* miss editor, with whom I could have had nice lengthy discussion abou violent illness and whether or Shaker Heights is really accurate hometown for protag. Also, champagne. Need champagne.

4:30 p.m.: Red Sage Spotlight, at which I’m outed as an editor. Very good spotlight, all around, until. of course, we get to the Q&A period. Most amusing questions of workshop: 1) “Do you want the submissions double-spaced?” Well, duh, we are a print publisher. (This is why I’m not allowed to answer questions, btw). And 2) (immediately after announcement by executive editor Judith Pich that Angela Knight is writing a menage au trois in the Secrets anthology 14) “Do you acept menage au trois?” People, seriously, read the books. You may be surprised what we’ll take if the sotry is good. Um, Tarzan, anyone? Take picture of blown-up Secrets cover with two of the authors (which doesn’t come out, damn it! I htink my little digital camera is finally showing its age and mileage). Ah well. See a picture of it here, anyway. Go get ready for dinner.

6 p.m. Dinner in the main ballrom, which they’ve really spruced up for occasion. I sit with chick litters Shannon McKelden, Serena Robar, Christina Arbini, Risha Parker, Wnedy Toliver and Aryn Kennedy, as well as roommies Cheryl Wilson (who says she won at craps) and Kelly Remick. Dinner is served. Waiter drops tureen of dressing on Christina Arbini’s celery satin gown. Remain a bit wary about food (cf. previous violent illness).

8 p.m. Get in long long long long long line leading to theatre for GH/RITA awards. Kelly Remick ducks out to buy us chocolate milkshakes at Johnny Rockets. We are seated in the way back of the theatre, in a semi-circular booth at which the two people not of the Cheryl-Kelly-Diana party insist upon taking the outside seats, forcing the rest of us to climb over them throughout whole ceremony (as it turns out, they never have to leave). Everyone is given a tiny chocolate Rita statue. Cute.

Much has been said about the awards ceremony elsewhere. I admit, at the time, I didn’t notice all of the problem. Some I noticed. Having actually seen the Challenger explode with my own two (six year old) eyes the first time around, I really didn’t need it repeated. When that scene began I was like “Oh no, they’re NOT going to put that onscreen!” and blocked the sight with my hands. The Diana funeral thing was needlessly lengthy, I also thought. And what was with all the jogging suits? I became fashion-conscious int eh 90s. That’s not what people were wearing. Try grunge. I pity the award winners, who were dressed to the nines yet got their official awards pictures taken next to people in jogging suits. Blecch. Then, towards the end, I thought it got needlessly political. I was offended by the “Unbelievable” and “Mambo #5” montages of Clinton, and, to my politically conservative friend who claims that they were equally negative towards Bush by showing him walking around, looking stately and presidential and flying jets to the strains of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” (she says that made him look stupid) — Honey, I love you, but no dice. I don’t think he looked stupid at all. Very distinguished, actually. Another friend told me that in her section of the audience, everyone booed Bush. I was sitting in a very red state section, apparently.

But the point is, there should not have BEEN red state and blue state sections at the RWA awards ceremony. Ridiculous. My final “WTF” moment ofthe ceremony was with Richard Curtis’s acceptance speech on behalf of his client, which seemed to go on for twenty minutes, and barely mentioned his client. Who was that for, again?

But finally it was over, and we headed out to the REAL celebration of the evening, the after party. I got some excellent pictures of award winners: (what, you actually want their faces? their identites? Oh, fine. That’s Victoria Gruendehl (Long Contemporary) on the right, and Robin Flury (Gemma Halliday, Strong Romantic Elements) on the left. Great necklaces, girls!

Also some new friends. (Isn’t this a nicer picture than the one Sasha put on her website, where it looks like I’m the victim of a facelift gone wrong?) Sasha White, ladies and gentlemen. She may not have a nice camera, but it doesn’t keep her from taking an excellent picture!

Another Golden Heart finalist, for her fabulous YA novel The Secret Life of Amber Hickenbottom. (I know, I know, I surround myself in glory!) Isn’t Heather is the prettiest salmon fisherman on either side of the Mississippi? (Not counting a few of the Men of the Middle Fork I met in Idaho). She has promised to teach me how to fly fish if I ever come out to Washington for a book tour.

And, we finally high tail it out of the party proper and into the bar. Bar bar bar. I run into TARA’s own RITA winner, the remarkable, genius, sparkling Karen Rose, who has her own little golden girl as well as a bottle of celebratory champagne. Woo hoo, Karen! (Sorry, I know the picture is a bit blurry, but it’s too priceless a shot not to post. Way to double fist, Miss K!

Roommate Kelly was flying out at six the next morning, so didn’t want to bother going to bed. exercising remarkable lack of judgement, I chose to stay up with her. I think I finally went to slep at 4:30, when she went up to the room to pack and check out.

SUNDAY

9:30 a.m.: Wake. Cheryl is gone already, so no typing. Shower, dress pack.

10:30 a.m.: Head downstairs for brunch with Marley.

12:30 p.m.: Taxi to airport. Endless lines to check in.

2:30 p.m.: Board plane. Plane takes off.

2:45 p.m.: Violently ill.

Later: Land in San Fransisco. Violently ill. Decide hate Reno Hilton and its propensity for giving me food poisoning.

Still later: Fly to Dulles. Sleep, some, between boughts of mild illness.

1 a.m. (ET): Land Washington, D.C. Dulles, Worst Airport ever. Wait on little transport thingy forever. Walk through construction up, down, around, around forever to get to bag claim. Discover airline has lost bag.

2 a.m. (ET): Feel hungry but also ill. Decide will never make it to work on Monday (today). Must get food. Head to diner across street. Eat lightly (mindful of violent illness).

2:50 a.m.: Return to apartment to find that the desk person is gone (or perhaps asleep under desk? Press buzzer for fifteen minutes.

3:05 a.m.: Commence calling apratment desk in hopes desk person just selectively deaf to buzzer.

3:15 a.m.: Sailor Boy contemplates calling his mother (lives a few miles away) to come pick us up.

3:25 a.m.: Diana, savior, finds way to break into building’s parking garage, and thus into building. Is mildly concerned by this but happier will not have to spend night on street.

3:30 a.m.: Wake up desk person. Believe Sailor Boy shows remarkable restraint in not beating desk person into pulp. Quakers…

3:35 a.m.: Bed. Bed bed bed…