Why must the conference always end?

It’s well known that sailors love their ale. A dirty habit, getting drunk and causing all manner of ugly. Well, here at scribbler’s cove, I’ve discovered the rum, and it’s very addictive.

It’s writer’s conferences!

Sad, but true. We’re lonely sorts (by choice of course) and we long for the companionship of that bottle of writerly love. That feeling that we’re not alone, that we’re not crazy – or at least, that others are crazy like us.

We drink that conference ale down and we feel bolder, cleverer; the world is our black pearl! We ride that high all week (or, for the Odyssey folks, a binge of three straight fortnights)!

And then, we come home and suffer through the withdrawal. The worst part for this sailor. I get the proverbial shakes and can’t write a thing for a month. I’m depressed. I wallow in the emptiness of the bottle – why must the conference always end? I cry.

I’ve been on four conference benders now, once per annum. At my first one, other writers asked me, “Is this your first conference?” to which I peered down my nose at them* and said haughtily “I’m just tasting the rum (you drunken sot, you!)”

But as the next summer loomed, I found myself craving another indulgence. Of writerly companionship, of inspiration, of... of... legitimacy. When at a conference, I feel justified in telling my lies. Even pious! The world needs me, I shall save it from a dreaded draught of good literature. I shall send the creative rain down into every thirsty mouth!

So again and again I have caved into the cravings. But no more. After this year’s Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers workshop, I’ve decided it’s high time to get dry. It’s time to write with a clear head. To take all I’ve learned in my exploration of self, and truly write with the door closed.

Until next year, of course.

Write on, sailors!

* which is a real trick when you’re five-foot-two.