My First Writers Conference:

A Beginner’s Tale of Nerves, Name Tags, and Actually Surviving It

I’ll be honest with you. I almost didn’t go.

Not because I didn’t want to — I desperately wanted to. But wanting something and actually showing up for it are two very different things, and as I pulled into the valet line at the conference hotel in Bellevue, Washington, I was seriously reconsidering.

I took a long, slow breath before handing my keys over. The valet didn’t know he was witnessing a pivotal moment in my history. He just wanted the car.

(My cannabis vape may have also helped take the edge off. No judgment. Writers are a complicated people.)

Inside, I did what any anxious first-timer does: I walked with great purpose directly toward the check-in table, as if I absolutely knew where I was going and had done this a hundred times. A yellow folder slid across the table toward me. Success! Except… no name tag.

They forgot to print mine.

So, I wrote it myself. By hand. In pen. Like a founding father signing something important, except it was just my name on a sticker. I was also, by the way, 45 minutes early. I had a lot of time to admire my handwritten name tag.

But here’s where the day took a turn for the actually wonderful.

I got to sit in on a session with Katt Kerr from the Donald Maass Literary Agency, and friends — she was fantastic. I scribbled notes like a person whose hand was on fire. And at some point, something wild happened: I raised my hand. Twice. I asked two whole questions out loud, in front of other humans, like a person who belongs in rooms like that.

It only came to me later that I actually belong in rooms like that.

The afternoon brought the moment I’d been equal parts dreading and dreaming about: pitching my novel, Threads of Fate, to agent Rebecca Love.

I pitched. She listened. And then she gave me feedback — real, thoughtful, useful feedback. Something clicked. The kind of click you feel in your chest when a piece of the puzzle you’ve been staring at for months suddenly slides into place.

I drove home. I opened my manuscript. And I got to work.

My first writers conference was not perfect. My name tag was handwritten, I arrived early enough to watch the chairs being set up, and I was running on nerves and good intentions. But it was also one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.

I can’t wait for next year.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some revisions to finish.