Well, sort of. Last week I attended the national Romance Writers of America conference. Me and a couple thousand other romance writers. It's a great chance to learn about the craft and business of writing and to see old friends. I also get to hang out with my publisher and agent and generally pretend I'm hot stuff.
I was certainly hot this time because Atlanta in July is an oven. No wait, more like a sauna. My hat is off to your Southern folk. I don't know how you all stand that heat!
I certainly didn't, especially when I wound up having to run an errand and couldn't get a cab and had to walk a mile back to the hotel. This turned out to not the safest walk I ever took. Found myself in a neighborhood where I plainly didn't belong. One nice man asked me where I was going and then informed me that I should be there. This I had already figured out. He ended the conversation with, "Don't do that again." Thank you, sir. I won't. Still, in spite of my scary adventure, I thought Atlanta was a pretty city. Saw the house where Margaret Mitchell lived and now I must read "Gone with the Wind" again.
Speaking of being gone with the wind, my camera went ... somewhere. Which is why there is no picture accompanying this blog. There is a new camera in little Sheila's future. There is also an iPhone so I can look up cab companies when the one I call refuses to answer the phone. Like Scarlett said (or would have said if sh