Another conference. Done and done.

I've just spent three-and-a-half days in San Diego, at the Southern California Writers' Conference and I'm both exhausted and supercharged. I was up every night until after midnight, and up every morning by seven a.m. and there was copious amounts of sushi and wine and discussion and laughter and hijinks in between. So it was a success.

Here are the highlights:

1. I kept my voice for the entire conference. This is a highlight because, for the past TWO conferences, I have lost my voice on Friday night and had to power through teaching my workshops. I owe this to avoiding all colds and viruses, and beginning every morning with a witches' brew that looks like this:

It's oranges, lemons, honey, ginger and turmeric. I put a hearty tablespoon in hot water and drink it. What a throat soother!

2. I got to hone my pitch/logline for A MORE DEADLY UNION in Jenny and Marla's Pitch Witches workshop. Now when someone asks me what my book is about, I can tell them,

"Peri is a 50-year old private investigator who knows two things: She doesn't want to get married AND she is happy to stick her nose in police business when she's solving a case. Suddenly, her boyfriend Skip is in a coma, and her case is interfering with the police's ability to find his shooter. Now all she knows is, she'll do anything if Skip will wake up--even marry him."

Jennifer Silva Redmond and Marla Miller, taking your calls.

I recommend their sessions highly for cutting through the fat of your pitch or query, and getting to the meat. 

3. Every night ended at the bar and every morning came too early, the sign of a good conference.

4. My workshop went well, so well that we were still talking when Laura Taylor came in to teach hers--oops! My apologies to Laura, and I tried to get out from under her feet as quickly as possible.

5. It was the conference's 30th anniversary and we celebrated!

With cake.

Wes Albers (left), and Michael Steven Gregory, blowing out the candles.

6. I came away with renewed energy, fond memories, and a burning desire to see these people again. What shocks me about this group of people is that we're not actually a group of people. We're not an organization - there is no membership roll, no dues, nothing but two conferences a year. And yet, we are a tribe, a community of writers who love to gather and discuss writing and feel that no one has an agenda, that we are happy for each other's successes, and that we are in safe company.

This particular weekend was about the quality of our writing. Without going into detail that would be unnecessarily painful and harsh, our tribe recently experienced a disturbance in the force. Someone we thought was one of us turned out to be not-so-much. Most of us spent the weekend going through the five stages of grief every half-hour. But it's okay, because it allowed our relationships to be cemented stronger, and to improve our writing even more. 

We will lift our words up until the universe sings our stories. We will aim for excellence and settle for exceptional. And in the meantime, we will write more and suck less.

I can't wait until September. Go here if you can't wait, either- http://writersconference.com/la/

My voice skips across water

My writing ego has had a bit of a spanking this week, so I've been thinking about who I am and what I do.

When I began, I wanted to write literary fiction. It is mostly what I read for many years. I was a bit of a book snob for a while, and would not read a book that wasn't at least 50 years old. I spent my time with Willa Cather and Somerset Maugham and Victor Hugo and Miguel Cervantes and so forth.

My first book attempted prose. Not just a story with characters, told by words. Beautiful phrasing, layers of thematic glory, a novel that would embed itself in each reader's soul and remain.

It lays on my external hard drive, where I use it for spare parts.

Slowly, painfully, I realized that I am not a literary writer. I have the words. The ones I don't have, I enjoy finding. Story is something that can find me, along with the cast. I'm not afraid of doing the work.

But I have no voice for literary tomes. The voices I have read are serious, perhaps to the point of depression. The words are not only beautiful, they are heavy with the weight of meaning. We laugh about "what the author really meant when they describe the curtains" but it's true. Even if I'm reading for enjoyment, the theme's undercurrent seems to pull me in with each word.

By contrast, my voice is light. It is a woman's soft laugh, a whispering wind too mild to blow the leaves back, pretty fireworks that light and sparkle and disappear into the darkness. To quote a friend of mine, I write "popcorn for the brain."

I put aside literary fiction to write mystery, which was my second favorite, thanks to Sherlock Holmes (fortunately, there were other old books in my library). After four novels, I can say that mystery suits me. I can tell a casual tale about some quirky folks who get into hot water. I know how to get them out of that hot water, too. My love for logic leads me to create interesting puzzles. And I still work hard to find the right word for the occasion.

When I was young and in choir, I was in the alto section. Being an alto meant I never sang the melody, only the harmony. Perhaps that is where I'm supposed to be as an author. Writing the harmonies.

At the end of the day, I'm happy to be telling stories and proud to be doing the work. Still, someday I should like to be able to weight my voice with enough importance to tell a tale that a reader cannot shake from their heart.