Yesterday I got up three and a half hours earlier than usual, after an unusually bad bout of insomnia.
Totally worth it, despite the too-much-excitement hangover headache I now have (and I do mean that literally – I didn’t partake of any alcohol, believe it or not).
CJ’s zombie twin* drove me to the airport, and I flew away as the sun rose.
This is what dawn looks like from above:
Yesterday was day one of the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, and by far my most epic day of schmoozing (at least, until the CYA Later conference on 4 September, on my way home via Brisbane). You may recall my recent epiphany that simply getting a few publisher email addresses drastically increases the odds of getting published. Thus, I went to “Publishing: The Whole Shebang” which featured Publishers A, C, I and K (what a smorgasboard of schmoozely delights!). I approached C and acquired the email of their children’s fiction department head (much yay; probably worth the trip). I introduced myself to the A representative, in the context of my existing dealings with that company (it turns out the three girls I’ve been talking to by email for the last four years are “around” this week, so that has some potential for re-igniting a sagging relationship). Unfortunately I didn’t get to talk to I or K, but at least I know their names and a little bit about them. I know exactly which books I’ll be sending to each one – and I’ll be keeping a sharp eye out for either of them for the rest of the festival. (Just hoping they haven’t gone home.)
I also made two new writing friends, ran into one of the friends from the July conference (and, in a shocking change of my usual habits, remembered her name), and talked to a couple of lovely ladies who organise this sort of amazing and useful thing. One of them asked, “Is that a wedding ring?”
I said, “Er, yes.”
They both laughed, and I was confused – reminded of the woman at the July con who asked when I was expecting.
“Um. . .” I said.
“You don’t look old enough to be married.”
Okay, THAT I can handle.
By the time my Melbourne friend** picked me up, I was stumbling-tired and slurring.
We ate fish and chips with plastic cutlery, and watched “How to Train Your Dragon”. I woke up in the morning remembering a conversation with some scottish guy with a giant red beard, and I wondered who he published for.
This picture is from flickr.com.
*Hottest. Zombie. Ever.
**I shall call her “Celia” in honour of Jaclyn Moriarty’s first book, “Feeling Sorry For Celia” (since I’ll be seeing the shiningly brilliant Jaclyn on Tuesday, and since my Celia deserves our pity for her self-invited guest).