Before we start, you should know something: The only thing I've ever won in my life was a free Snapple, and I lost the cap before I could redeem my prize. It doesn't matter if the contest is skill-based or sheer luck. I just don't win. At this point, I don't even watch when my husband's basketball team plays during March Madness.
So, last week I attended the Romance Writers of America's national conference in Orlando wearing grown-up clothes and makeup and generally trying to pass myself off as a professional. I went for several reasons: one, there is no better place to learn about the craft and business of writing than Nationals. Two, there is maid service. Three, in April I was named a finalist in RWA's Golden Heart contest in the Young Adult category.
(The Golden Heart is the contest for unpublished writers. Published writers enter the RITA. There is a joint awards ceremony the last night of the conference, and it is like the OSCARS. People wear ballgowns. They put your picture on a freaking jumbotron. It is Rather A Big Deal.)
To Orlando I went. In July. HOTHOTHOT. I avoided the outdoors as much as possible, and reveled in the fact I could turn the thermostat in my room to an icy 66 degrees. I went to workshops and receptions and retreats and booksignings and tried very hard not to think about the jumbotron. I met an astonishing number of ridiculously talented, funny, whip-smart authors. Nora Roberts signed a book for my aunt, ensuring I could show my face at future family gatherings (Auntie Pat was quite clear on this point: bring back a signed Nora OR ELSE.) I met the other finalists, a group I had gotten to know online over the last four months, and adored them unequivocally. I got my first manicure in ten years. I most emphatically did not think about the jumbotron.
I dressed for the ceremony and tried to do something with my hair. I gave up on the hair. I put on lip gloss. My hair got stuck in the lipgloss. I told myself it looked edgy. I wore shoes with heels and wished quite desperately for comfy pants.
I went to the ceremony, happy to find the YA category would be announced first so I could cheer for my friends and enjoy the evening, untroubled by thoughts of the jumbotron. I ate half my dessert, a complicated chocolate-fudge-raspberry tart thing, and declared it too rich, even for me.
The ceremony started. Previous RITA and GH winners were shown on-screen, including a book I loved in junior high. I pondered the odds of it still residing in my parents' basement (pretty good). And then the impossibly gorgeous Meg Cabot announced the winner of the Golden Heart for Best Young Adult Manuscript.
And it was me."Holy CRAP," I said.
"DON'T SWEAR," said Eliza, my date for the evening, and shoved me toward the stage.
I am pretty sure I did not swear on camera, but to be honest, right after MEG CABOT HUGGED ME, everything went a little woozly and I don't remember anything until I was nearly back to my seat.
And I will tell you: even with the jumbotron, this beats the ever-loving hell out of a bottle of iced tea.
