Thoughts from the Blue Ridge Writer's Conference

April 2nd I attended The Fourteenth Annual Blue Ridge Writer's Conference, billed as 'a meeting in the mountains for readers and writers'.  This was my third Blue Ridge conference and I was very excited to be able to attend and to be back in a town Sweetie and I call our adopted home.

As I sat through the opening remarks and welcome, I thought back on how I got to this point.  I want to share a little of my background today and I will continue my conference experiences and notes over the next few weeks. 

I lived in Blue Ridge several years before I knew about this conference.  Honestly, the first time I heard about it, I did not think of myself as a writer.  I was not quite yet to the point of even believing that I could put words on a page.  I had spent my life reading and 'escaping into books', but writing had been pushed way back in the recesses of my mind.  It wasn't even a dream, just fragmented jigsaw puzzle pieces of ideas with the corners missing.

Yes, I do have a degree in Journalism and Agriculture and I took several news and magazine writing courses at UGA, but in my mind, that seemed like a world away from writing stories, fictional accounts of life.  Immediately after college I did some free-lance writing, but I seemed to gravitate toward public relations.   

Then as life usually does, my path veered off to another then another and I forgot my youthful dreams of a writing career.  Every so often, sometimes daily, Mama would mention my journalism degree and why didn't I pursue that career.  Sometimes I listened, mostly I didn't.

My step-daughter and her then year old son were living with us and I noticed she was keeping a journal.  As I encouraged her writing my brain suddenly woke up, like I had been zapped by a bolt of lightening.  I kicked the muddled emotional coma I had been in off like a winter blanket in an over heated room.  It was simple.  Something really important had been missing in my life.  I stumbled down the few steps to our closed-in carport where my computer was set up.  I sat down in front of the screen and touched the keyboard.

A story moved from my brain down through my fingers and words appeared on the screen.  OMG.  I did it.  I wrote a really bad opening to a potentially bad novel.  Bad might be a little harsh, but when I re-read some of my first efforts, I see multiple problems.  But I kept going.  I kept creating a story, building a life story for my characters, learning their quirks and their dreams.  They became my friends and soon as close as family.

I was writing.  I am a writer.  I could go to a writer's conference and actually admit to the world, I am a writer.  I decided to come out of the closet.

The first Blue Ridge Writer's Conference I attended, I took a deep breath and barged head-long into the opening night reception, carrying as much confidence that I could stuff in the little tote bag of goodies they handed out.  I was that proverbial mallard.  Cool and calm on top of the water while inside, underwater, I was furiously churning, kicking my way across the pond.  I took a deep breath and worked the room.  I met various authors, editors, conference speakers and other attendees, remembering to shake hands firmly and look them in the eye while smiling and laughing. I could at least act like a writer.

The next day at the actual conference, I walked in and knew I was in the right place.  I was not alone in my efforts to accomplish the impossible.  There was (and still is) security and insecurity in the fact that I am just one of millions of budding authors. 

And so I have a dream.  A dream that now, with several completed manuscripts under my belt, and with the help and encouragement of myriad friends and family, I am not afraid to tell y'all about.

I am a writer.