…breathing the rarefied atmosphere of what-ifs and it-could-happens surrounding us and our computers. We are airship pilots, steering boldly through a universe of plot points and dangling participles. Except for the editor on the shoulder, swinging her legs and insulting those she considers talentless wannabes, the writer is alone. (Okay, some writers work with partners, but this is a metaphor, for crisssake. Give me a break.)
As mentioned in the previous post, occasionally lonely writers band together with others of their ilk to exchange ideas and teach each other the finer points of writing. So it was that hundreds of scribblers met last weekend at the Colorado Gold Conference sponsored by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. They learned, they laughed; they pondered, they wept. They ate banquet food and drank okay wine. Old friends were greeted with love and new friendships were begun.
The most important process involved foundations for castles in the air constructed of honed words; wispy glimpses of possible characters; odd notions colliding, searching for order in fevered brains. Who ever knows the exact moment when an idea is born? I wager some were at Colorado Gold.
It was joyous to see everyone, to have those conversations about shared enthusiasm, to listen to the writers who spoke to us about their own challenges in the pursuit of this strange, mystical endeavor of putting words on pages.
Loneliness is currently at bay. Ideas are simmering in my slightly less fevered brain. I am grateful to be a part of our community. Hope to see you next year.