Since I’ll be headed out to my first convention of the year RT Booklovers Convention, (actually, five Dames will be there this year: Dame Keri, Dame Jenna, Dame Jackie, Dame Rachel, and me) I thought I’d talk a little about why writers go to conventions. Now, this probably isn’t true for everyone, but I believe the main reasons published writers pack their bags and fly off to convention centers ‘round the world are:
1. To connect with readers, writers, editors, agents.
2. To “talk shop” about the publishing industry and the business we’re in.
3 To teach classes/give critiques/talk on panels.
4. To participate in the community spirit.
5. To get the word out about our books.
You will note, “get the word out about our books” came in at #5. Sure, writers love it when they have a face-to-face opportunity to tell readers about a new project.
But the main reason published writers go to a convention is the people. We’re there to hook up with people who share in our love of reading–because, hey, we’re readers too. We’re there to talk to writers who share in our love of writing, and we’re there to participate in that unique community that emerges when you put hundreds and sometimes thousands of readers, writers, industry professionals, and fans of all sorts in a room together.
So if you are at a convention or conference and you see a writer you’d like to talk to–don’t be shy. Step right up and say “hi”. We’d love to meet you. That’s why we’re there!
And since I am running behind in my convention preparations, I’d like to do two things with this post:
1. Open it up for questions. If you have any question about writing, conventions, books, or just our lives in general, ask away! We Dames love it when readers ask questions.
2. Leave you with a snippet from MAGIC ON THE STORM, which will be in stores May 4th. I hope you enjoy–and I hope to see you at a convention, conference, or signing someday soon!
MAGIC ON THE STORM
“Okay, magic boy. You’re on. First person to cry mercy folds the laundry.”
“After you.” He stepped aside so I could walk past him, and I did too, without freaking out or even having to hold my breath even though there just wasn’t enough room in the hall for me and him in the same place.
Of course my bathroom was even smaller.
And it was currently filled with a half ton of living rock who was flushing my toilet and watching the water circle the drain, his wings quivering in excitement.
Great. When had the gargoyle learned to flush the toilet? My water bill was going to be sky-high.
“Stone,” I said. “Out. Go play with a lathe or something.”
He swiveled his head and looked at me over his shoulder, one five-fingered hand still resting on the tank plunger.
“Window, boy. Go to the window. It’s dark out. Nighttime. You could go. Out. Go fly.”
He clacked doubtfully and looked back down at the water.
I put my hand on Stone’s head and stared straight into his intelligent, round eyes. “Out.” I pointed my other hand at the door, and tipped his head that way.
He cooed happily at Zayvion, who leaned one wide shoulder against the doorway and took up all the remaining space and air.
“Getting out of the way would be nice,” I said to Zayvion.
“Oh. Sorry about that,” he said, clearly not at all sorry.
He backed into the hallway and snapped his fingers twice. Stone’s ears flicked back, then pricked up when Zay snapped his fingers again. Stone looked at me, clacked, in a why-didn’t-you-say-so way, then lifted up on his two back legs and waddled out of the bathroom.
He clattered like a bag of marbles being shaken, and Zayvion treated him to another head scratching and told him he was a good boy.
Fine. Let him play with the statuary. I was taking a shower.
I started the water and stripped, throwing everything but my bra—which wasn’t wet, wonder of wonders—into the hamper.
I did not look at myself in the mirror, because right now I didn’t care how many scars I had, nor if my father was going to be looking at me through my eyes. Hot water was calling me and nothing was getting in between me and the steam.
I dunked my head under the strong, hot spray and moaned. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to shower at the gym this morning.
“No fair starting without me,” Zayvion said.
Man was too damn quiet.
But I did hear him taking off his shoes, and then just one clack of his belt buckle being undone.
The thought of him, of his body in the shower with me, made me wish I hadn’t agreed to this little bet.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I called out.
He pulled back the curtain at the head of the shower, caught my arms in his wide, strong hands, and pulled me in for a kiss.
I sputtered and laughed against his lips as he manhandled me to one side so he could step into the shower. He tried to pull me out of the water so he could get in and soak, but I planted my feet.
“Get your own hot water, cowboy,” I said, holding my own under the showerhead.
Zay drew his hands down my arms, his fingers leaving my wrists to caress my stomach and hips. He stroked back over my ass, and pressed against me full body.
Yum.
“What if I like your water?” he asked.
“Then you’re going to have to work a heck of a lot harder for it.”
“Fair enough. I think I’ll start here.”
He leaned down again. This time his mouth found my shoulder. He kissed me there, his tongue licking over the marks magic had left on me, stroking and urging the magic inside me to rise to his touch.
I bit my lip on a groan. Magic flared in me, licking hot, and I didn’t even try to hold it back. I thought, for just a moment, that I should have left the void stone necklace on. And then I didn’t think about anything but Zayvion, and what he was doing to me.
This is Diana Peterfreund and me, the next day, waiting in line to see Jeri Smith-Ready, who was signing Shade, her first YA release.
This is Artist Arthur (in green) and me signing together at the HQTeen/Kimani signing. On my left is editor Natashya Wilson, head of the HQTeen line.
