Killer Nashville 2018

I'm just back from the Killer Nashville Conference with a phone bulging with pictures of the mountains and the city, of the insides of bars, singers on stages, the wonky shots of conference-goers, blurring in the light and not so light, of Linda Sands looking like a Fleetwood Mac impressionist painting, grabbing her (Congratulations, Linda!) award for best Action Adventure novel.

But I'm filled too, like my phone. I'm filled with memories of good food and company, and so-so wine. I'm filled with laughter, the validation of good friends and conversation, but most of all, I'm filled with something more elusive. Awe, or inspiration, with the camaraderie of being for three days with other writers, with knowing that they understand the angst and isolation, the frustration and delight This conference makes me want to be a better writer, reminds me of the days I pulled down the toilet lid and wrote in our one bathroom because it was the only room in the apartment with a lock. This conference reminds me why I write, and in a way, reminds me who I am.

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