I slid into the back row of the workshop room at the Atlanta Marquis Marriott, just as the moderator straightened her pink lapels and leaned into the microphone. "Welcome to . . . The Roar of Greasepaint, Smell of the Crowd.”
I pulled out my RWA National Conference schedule and paged through it. What happened to 'Drop Everything and Give Me Ten . . . Books' with Nora Roberts? The masked chick sitting off to the side of the moderator was no Nora. Nora wore sunglasses. Damn! Nora was last session. That's what I got for wading too deep into the bar looking for anyone with a pulse wearing a 'publishing professional' badge.
The moderator cleared her throat and squinted at the bio sheet. "I hope I don't make a muddle of this. I'd like to introduce to you a woman who wears stilettos but has never had a bunion, enjoys promenading poodles, reading Galleycat and listening to Bat Segundo, a woman who snaps like a terrapin at the thought of an equery, and whose form rejection says, 'your mother wears army boots.' Ladies, I present to you no ignis fatuus, no will of the wisp, but the genuine tomato, Miss A”
I slipped out of my seat, so totally out of here. Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer were nextdoor giving "Now You See Us, Now You See Us Again." The bar would be cleared of all writers. If Miss Snark was here, she'd want me to make the most of every opportunity. The publishing professionals were all mine.
Miss Snark at the RWA conference? They wouldn't let her in! Some rule about gin flasks...
Scoring to come