This is the big week--the week of the Romance Writers of America national conference, held this year in Reno, NV. It's a great time, glitzy and glamorous, a time for formal gowns and new hairdos. The parties almost never end, the schedule is insane, the people are all smiling and wonderful (well, except those "pitching" new stories to editors and agents. They're usually petrified). There are touching luncheon addresses, bawdy skits, informative workshops on career and the craft of writing. All in all, it's exciting and amazing to have so many creative people in one place. It's often said that writers are the only people who only understand writers. And we're mostly women writers, which tends to make us even more empathetic toward each other. So we talk. And we talk. And we share. And we talk some more. It's wonderful.

And yet, as I'm packing my gowns and heels today, I'm already feeling separation anxiety for my blue jeans and T-shirts. I can't help feeling a twinge of sadness at leaving my riding boots and helmet behind. Not to mention my horse.

So many of my writer friends love this chance to "play dress up" and paint their nails and wear sequins and feathers . I'm just not into that stuff. Why can't we have a country girls' conference where we wear cutoff shorts and ball caps to keep the sun out of our eyes?

I really do enjoy the RWA conference. I don't really mind playing "city girl" once in while, but I don't think I fool many people. At heart, I'm really just a country girl.

Until later (after the conference!),
Vickie