Conference officially begins today.

Nancy and I sat in the lobby just people-watching yesterday before dinner. I was amazed how many faces seemed familiar. Not that I could recall the names, but so many women I met last year were back. Six of us decided to go across the street to have dinner. If any conference attendees have a chance, hit that bistro. (I forgot the name, so I’ll check on that today and add it to tonight’s post.) The food was great. Very Gordon Ramsey-ish. And the waiter was a shameless flirt.

We’ve got plans to hit Fisherman’s Wharf today for lunch. And we still need to see the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ll post some pictures later tonight.

I’m looking forward to the literacy signing tonight. I’ll make sure I take my camera!

I learned today just how much I don’t know about the world.

Judith, Peggy, and I headed to the Haight-Ashbury district. I mean, hey… Gotta see what spawned the Grateful Dead and Charles Manson. Right? It was truly enlightening. I saw my first hookha. (I think that’s how you spell it.) My observation from what I now realize is a limited amount of life experience was that it looked like what the caterpillar was smoking in Alice in Wonderland. It took Judith a good five minutes to stop laughing.

We went into one fascinating store that carried everything I’d ever expect to find in Elton John’s closet. Holy smokes. There were fur bras. No, really. Fur. Bras. And headdresses like Cher used to wear to award shows. Mardi Gras masks. Earrings of every conceivable shape and size. Unfortunately, pictures were forbidden in the store. Alas. I would have loved to share some with you. I have never seen so many creative uses of marijuana leaves. They decorated everything from t-shirts to ashtrays to earrings. And there was tie-dye as far as the eye could see.

San Francisco people are amazing. Whether you’re looking at the natives or the tourists, they are truly a sight to behold. I seldom hear English unless I’m speaking it. Whenever I’ve had someone waiting on me, I’ve watched for nametags. How diverse! Not a Jim or Jane among them.

By the time we got back to the hotel, the RWA contingent had arrived. The line to check in extended all the way around the lobby. The official conference starts tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll have more adventures to share.

As always, click on the thumbnail pictures to enlarge.

Peggy and me at the famous Haight Ashbury intersection.

Judith and me in front of one of the many murals.

A sitar player on the street.

How about a few pictures from my wanderings yesterday? (Just click on the thumbnail to enlarge.)

This is looking up Stockton Street, one of the most stereotypical rising streets.

Here’s Peggy with the beautiful Bay Bridge and some palm trees as a nice backdrop.

Union Square is a mixture of old and new. The memorial is to veterans of the Spanish-American War.

And for my beloved daughter, here’s Louis Vuitton.

Toto, we’re not in Indiana anymore.

I landed in San Francisco at 12:30 pm – or 9:30 am. I still haven’t figured out the time change. I made it through the flight, avoiding my characteristic nervous breakdown. The lady sitting next to me was so sweet. She chatted with me through both takeoff and landing as if she knew that distracting me would keep me calm. Perhaps she was an angel sent to get me through the flight.

Seeing the bay as we flew in was breathtaking. I didn’t get to see the Golden Gate, but we did have a great view of the Bay Bridge. I felt safe all through the flight, and the pilot touched us down without even a bump. Best flight I can remember. No, I wasn’t afraid at all. Not until I got on the shuttle to go to the hotel.

The man driving the shuttle had a death wish. I was sitting next to a couple on their honeymoon and a physician from San Francisco. We learned quite a bit about each other. We bonded because we were all convinced we were going to die before any of us made our destinations. The driver was trying to check our reservation numbers, talk to his dispatcher, and drink from his bottle of water – all at the same time. Oh, and he was also driving way too fast and not paying a whole lot of attention to the lane markings. I guess he thought they were suggestions, not requirements. I tried to stop hitting the imaginary brake with my right foot and look at the scenery.

San Francisco is beautiful. So different from Indianapolis. The hills are everywhere, and every inch of space is used for houses. The physician lived in a neighborhood that is often used for movie scenes, and we got to see quite a bit of it because he got dropped off first. He said they close the street at least once a month to film some movie. It really did look familiar with the houses each rising a little higher as the hill steepened. I was fascinated with how tightly they were packed.

The Marriott is gorgeous. All of you RWA members coming here will be thrilled. It is, however, bigger than some cities. I’m on the fourth floor, but I think I’m six blocks from the lobby. I went down to get some coffee and got lost in the labyrinth of rooms. Of course there is a Starbucks everywhere you look, so I should be able to find one in the morning.

I was restless when I arrived, and my friend Peggy was still tied up, so I went exploring. St. Patrick’s Church. Yerba Buena Gardens. Union Square. And just to please my daughter, I went to Louis Vuitton and coveted the purses. I was again struck by how different this city is compared to home. No fast food restaurants on every block. No parking lots. There were cars, but most people were traveling by bus or Vespa. There were lines of scooters parked together about every other block. Since it dawned on me that it was well past lunch in “my” time, I grabbed a hotdog from a street vendor, sat at Union Square, and did my favorite thing. I watched people.

Peggy and I finally caught up with each other and headed out to eat a real meal. It was supper for me, lunch for Peggy because she’d already made the time change adjustment. She’d heard of a restaurant by the Bay Bridge that was run by men who had been released from prison, and she asked if I was adventurous. Me? Adventurous? Why not! So off we went on a brisk walk that took us past a bunch of piers, several neighborhoods, AT&T Stadium, and the Bay Bridge. When we hit South Beach, we found the restaurant – Delancy Street. It was closed on Mondays. Sigh. But the walk was great, and Peggy is just like me. She loves to stop and window shop or go in interesting stores. We also saw some very interesting characters – the most unusual being a man who looked fairly well-to-do. He was dressed in a suit and pulling a rolling suitcase and briefcase. The reason we noticed him was because he was shouting obscenities the entire time we followed him, which we did at a distance until he turned another direction when we were about to cross the street to avoid him.

Since the restaurant was closed, we took a different route home to see new things. We finally found ourselves back at a Mexican restaurant about a block from the hotel. We shared some crab and shrimp quesadillas, and when we were ready to leave, I asked for a pop refill in a to-go cup. All they had was a kiddie cup, so I got to head out with a cute little plastic glass with cartoons. Peggy laughed all the way to the hotel. I truly enjoyed her company.

Tomorrow, more of my friends will be here. I’m sure we’ll get into all kinds of mischief.

I’ll keep you posted.

All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go…

Sorry. The middle-aged lady in me has that 70’s song stuck in my head. I’m out the door tomorrow way too damn early to head to San Francisco. I’ve never been to California, so I’m really excited. I figured if I was making the trip that far, I’d give myself a couple of days to sightsee before I have to focus on business.

I don’t fly well. I think it’s a control issue. If I was able to fly the plane, it might not bother me so much. It didn’t help I had a friend die in a plane crash when I was in high school. I’m not sure it’s an out-and-out phobia. (Can you hear my husband laughing from where you are?) Okay, so it is a phobia. But I can deal. I’ve got a window seat, so I’ll stare out of that and call off every recognizable landmark to whichever poor soul is stuck sitting beside me. For those of you of my age and the same cultural references, can you remember the movie Airplane! and what happens every time the main character sits down and talks about his life story? Yeah, that’s probably what will happen to anyone who has to sit by me.

I’m on my own on Monday. My roommate — Golden Heart YA finalist Kay Cassidy — will be in later that day. And the rest of my friends arrive on Tuesday or Wednesday. But Monday is all me. Would it be odd to say I’m hoping to find the Charmed house? On Tuesday, a few of us are planning to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. 1.6 miles there and 1.6 miles back. When I told my mother about those plans, she didn’t stop laughing for a solid minute. She drove across the Ambassador Bridge between Detroit and Windsor (Canada) with me, so she knows about my bridge phobia. Hence the laughter. Do you suppose I’ll just talk my friends’ heads off and they’ll just toss me over the railing?

I have a few things to finish up before I leave. The house needs a quick clean. Last loads of laundry. All sorts of anxiety to be properly worked up. Because tomorrow…

I’m leaving on a jet plane.

I’m not sure what I did to piss off Mother Nature, but… Geesh. Enough is enough. An earthquake. The flood. And now…

Our birch tree snapped in half during a brief (yet very intense) storm last night. I get to spend this morning looking for someone to cut it down. Hopefully, we can save the tree and just prune it waaaay back. We’ll see.

Actually, I shouldn’t complain. Compared to so many people in and around Johnson County, we’ve had it easy. My heart goes out to the families who lost their homes. So no more griping.

Anyone need some good firewood?

Two weeks until I head to sunny California.

I’m trying to finish The Impetuous Amazon so that I can go to the RWA conference without characters screaming in my head. I plan to take a whole week off from writing so I can enjoy the conference and California without my usual Type A need to log some major word counts every day. I’ll let you know how that goes.

I am, however, taking my trusty laptop. I figured I could upload some pictures and write a little bit about the fun things that happen at conference. You know — a “Nora sighting,” meeting some other well-known authors, fun things I see in San Francisco. I’ll just have to remind myself to blog and answer emails only. No new stories. Yeah, right.

Like I could go a week without writing.

Do I have a story for you!

Since Friday was a holiday, I woke up relieved. I’ve got a few submissions out with publishers, but I’ve yet to hear back from them. I’ve nibbled away my most of my fingernails waiting, and I have a good start on developing that OCD my hubby always jokes about because I constantly check my email. But Friday was a holiday, so I figured I could actually receive email without getting slapped in the face with a rejection. It was safe to leave my email open and just have some fun finishing up the second Amazon book. (Close to finishing it… so close…)

I blast off about a thousand words. Then the email alert pops up. The OCD in me has to go check it. I click on the little icon. The incoming was only spam. No problem. I could use a quick breather before I zip off another thousand words. Maybe I can get a laugh out of someone claiming they can make a certain part of anatomy that I don’t have much, much bigger.

Not spam.

Editor.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

It’s a holiday. I’m not supposed to get a rejection on a holiday. People don’t work on a holiday. Even worse, the “rule” in publishing is that good news comes by phone; bad news by email. So here comes a rejection.

Opened the email. Sat there like some statue.

“Dear Sandy, Thank you for sending your wonderful book, Turning Thirty-Twelve (also, what a great title!) We would love to publish your book at Bookstrand!”

No freakin’ way! My book? The acquisitions editor wants MY book? After taking a moment to absorb the meaning of the words that shouldn’t be sitting there right in front of me, I screamed for Jeff. He comes running downstairs, probably thinking the house is on fire. Due to my continued squealing, Dr. Carter (the Schnauzer) is barking like a cat is loose in the house and Peanut (the cockatiel) is flying around the family room like a hawk is after him. But despite my fears they will simply vanish, the words don’t disappear. Jeff reads the email and says, “Nice.” High compliment from the Old Man. The first thing he wants to do is read the contract. And he calls me OCD?

The editor wants to purchase Turning Thirty-Twelve. Of all the books, I never thought that one would be the first to sell. It’s not a part of any of my series. It’s sarcastic and quirky. It’s never been through my critique group. My online critique partner hasn’t ripped it to shreds. I never entered it in a contest.

On the other hand, Turning Thirty-Twelve is one of my favorites. I wrote it simply to please me, hence the sarcastic and quirky. When it’s published, anyone who knows me and reads it will hear my voice in their head. Jackie (the heroine) is that much like me.

Bookstrand is planning to release the epub version in January, and they’ll have the print version available in June. They also promised my cover would be part of a full page ad in Romantic Times. But do you know what the best part of this whole thing was? The editor called me “wonderful.”

The fourth of July is now officially my favorite holiday.

How did it get to be July already?

Geesh. It seems there is some warp of the space-time continuum in the summer. The days fly by so much faster than they do during the school year. Wasn’t graduation just a week or so ago?

Actually, I believe the blame lies mostly in my age. Time slips by so fast now compared to when I was younger. I’m constantly amazed at finding my children — my very grown up children — doing things it seems I was doing just yesterday. Like being in college and getting married. When did I get old enough to have a daughter and son-in-law who just passed their first wedding anniversary? I don’t even want to think about how surreal it will be when they make me a — gasp! — grandmother.

Last week the Old Man and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Twenty five years. Seriously. A quarter century. But what seems so odd is that I can vividly remember it being just yesterday that I was the bride. And I remember that first positive pregnancy test. And two in diapers at the same time. And day care. And soccer every Saturday morning. And… Well, you get the picture. Perhaps that space-time continuum warp applies to more than just the summer.

I promised the Old Man I wouldn’t write anything mushy and sentimental about our anniversary. We played the day very low key, which should surprise absolutely no one. The kids both called. We received a couple of cards in the mail. We went out for some really good Italian food that we both ate far too much of. The whole evening was so… us.

I jokingly call Jeff my own “romance hero” on my website biography page. Anyone who knows us has to chuckle at that. Jeff isn’t romantic. In fact, Jeff is so far removed from romantic, he’s the antithesis. And you know what? I couldn’t care less. This man has stood by my side through so much. When we took our vows in 1983, we had no idea that we would get the worse of “for better or worse,” the poorer of “for richer or poorer,” and the sickness of “in sickness and in health.” I’m not complaining, mind you. Just sayin’. But you know what the marvelous part of our marriage has been? Going through all we’ve been through has made us stronger, and there’s never been a time I reached for his hand and it wasn’t there.

Okay, so I did get a bit mushy and sentimental after all. I suppose it’s the romance writer in me. I could really have tried to tug those heartstrings, but I’ll refrain for the time being. Maybe on our fiftieth. I do have to wonder how fast the next twenty-five years — God willing — will go by.

Even if the time flies by, I’ll still try to enjoy every speedy minute.

Despite what my family will tell you, I don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Okay, so I will admit this much… I’m Type A. I’m ultra-organized. I like things around me to be neat. If I have something important to do, I have to get it done before I can relax. If I’m not busy, I’ll find something to do. If you’re telling me a story and you don’t get to the point quickly, I’ll start trying to finish it for you. (One of my least endearing traits…) And I take on so many things, some days I feel like a circus juggler. Type A to the very last detail, but not genuinely OCD. At least I didn’t think so until this summer.

For some reason, I find myself drifting to my email just to see what’s come in. Usually nothing. Unless you count the offers to increase a certain part of the human anatomy I simply don’t possess. They evidently can sell me prescription drugs at low prices too. But mostly, my email is nonexistent.

I often wonder what it was like for writers in the past — before the miracle of email and file sharing. Did they sit and stare at their mailbox the same way I hover over my cyber mailbox? Did they make repeated trips to the post office to drop off their precious partials with a kiss and a prayer? Did they know the Kinko’s salesman by his first name? Damn, but between the postage and the printing, it had to be expensive to get noticed.

The explosion of computers has changed the world for writers, not just on the obvious level of using word processing. That, in and of itself, is a true miracle in my book. But it’s changed publishing too. I’m amazed how many agents are “green” now — only taking queries through email. Now that the post office has made it next to impossible to send manuscripts without a DNA sample, a thumbprint, and a scan of your retina, it shouldn’t be surprising. I imagine it’s just as wonderful for agents and editors as it is for writers. No lugging around piles of partials. No worrying about losing pages. A handy laptop or PDA, and you’re connected to anyone you’d ever want to talk to and can pull up any number of files to read.

On the other hand, there’s something to be said about being too connected, especially for people like me. We tend to have trouble simply turning the silly computer off. But I suppose my Type A personality plays well into this new technologically rich world. I just need to learn when to walk away and let the mailbox alone.

Besides, if I was going to have OCD, it would have to be called CDO so it was in alphabetical order.