I'm in Atlanta now and my conference-going started this morning with a good sign: when I went to pick up my nametag at the registration area, the only desk that didn't have a long line in front of it was the one serving my portion of the alphabet. At that moment, I was the only G through L needing attention, and boy, did I get it.
My hotel is populated by attendees at two different conventions: a group of writers and writing teachers and a group of sales associates. It's easy to tell the two groups apart. For one thing, the sales associates sport fewer ponytails, and the writers are more likely to be dressed in costumes suggesting creativity, authenticity, and drama. The first session I attended (on syntax in poetry) was populated mostly by women, most of them middle-aged or older and looking very sincere. The session didn't start on time, but what did I expect from a gaggle of poets? "We don't know who we are, frankly," said the first speaker, and I sympathize. With many dozens of concurrent sessions running for three days, I don't see a single session for doggerelists. There is a session featuring a panelist talking about blogging--but wait, that would be me. Hope I'm not the only one interested in the topic.
And what about Bloggers Without Borders? There's a small Starbucks tucked into the lobby of the Marriott Marquis; I'll be there at 8:00 sharp Saturday, ready to encounter anyone out there who might want to visit. I'll be the girl with the orchid behind her ear. Or not.
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