The conference procrastinator

Saturday: Procrastinator returns from conference
Sunday: No post.
Monday: No post!
Tuesday: NO! POST!
Wednesday: Why bother even checking today?
Thursday: What a dick!

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. It's taken me a bit to digest all the goings on at the conference and to get back in the swing of things, especially class, back here. I got a 77% on my make-up cell biology test, which for me is bad. But considering I didn't touch a book for over a week and barely put any effort into things when I did touch the book, I guess I could've done a whole lot worse. But that's not what I'm supposed to be writing about. I should be writing about the conference. The conference! I know that I said I would probably break up my experiences at the conference into three parts, the people, the classes, and the consultations, but I'm going to stray from that format a little bit. It will still take me several posts to get out everything that I want to get out about it, I just may need different categories.

Tonight's category, actually, is me. The conference was the kind of thing that overwhelms me: new people, new food, new sleeping conditions, new activities, unfamiliar, unfamiliar, unfamiliar. It was one of those situations that make me sick to my stomach, my head, my chest, and even my throat. But I felt great the whole time. Tired. But great. I never had a headache worth mentioning. My stomach was fine even though I was eating large quantities of foods that I don't normally eat. I was like a different person, a normal person whose body doesn't shut down at the slightest bit of resistance or tense up at the merest signs of anxiety.

I was confident. I found myself talking to judges, MDs, psychologists, journalists, publishers, bigwig college administrators, and really, really good writers. But I wasn't intimidated. I would just sit down at a table full of strangers and introduce myself all around. I didn't think that other people would somehow judge me and think nasty things about me because they have reached the top of their professions and I am living in my sister's toy room. And I had a great time. I met a lot of people. I made friends. I was charming. . . I write this in the past tense because the conference felt like this mystical world where I was a superhero and no harm could come to me. I could show my crapcrapcrappy draft of my latest project to a few people, and they would tell me it was really good. I could make a cheesy wordplay joke, and everyone would laugh. I could be a writer, and that would be enough. But back in the real world, I bomb my biology test. When I say hello, the cute woman on the stairs seems more uncomfortable than friendly. And I still have to justify myself.

"What do you do?"
"I'm a writer."
"Really? What have you published?"
"Nothing."
"What do you do for money?"
". . ."

It's funny, a lot of 'great' writers had benefactors who financially supported them while they worked on their craft, and everyone seems fine with that arrangement. But if someone were to enter into such an arrangement and then not get that big artistic break, not create that masterpiece, then that person would be a lazy mooch that needs to get a real job. . .

Wow. The tone of this post has become more negative, more self-deprecating, than I had planned. I'm actually in a really good place right now. I may not be as confident as I was at the conference, but I did come back with more confidence than I had before I left. I'm on the verge of something. I know it.

I'm grateful for ice cream (20).