“There's an epigram tacked to my office bulletin board, pinched from a magazine -- "Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté.”
― Margaret Atwood

Ms. Stuart~

I may call you that, right? Or is there something else you prefer? Whatever, I'll leave the greeting alone for the moment because, for some reason, Muse drug me out of bed at her usual time (that being 3:00 in the bloody a.m.) but rather than horsewhip me into writing something frustratingly imaginary, I seem to be driven to drop you an email.

Happy there, Muse?

Many, many years ago when I was just really getting my romance writing feet wet, and when I had no clue whatsoever who you were, you made a comment about hunky Fabio and his own, er, foray into romance writing. At the time I became incensed! How dare you?! I decided I hated you on the spot.

Then, not long after that I attended the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention in Nashville. Talk about being a fish out of water! But what do you expect of someone who arrives in a aged pickup with a shell and a mile long CB antenna, leaving a trail of blue smoke everywhere she went? Including inside the parking garage of the very nice hotel where the event was being held, where the mile-long CB antenna scraped loudly along the cement ceiling as the pickup made its way on a cloud of its own blue smoke looking for a parking spot, any parking spot. And finally finding it. Right smack dab between a Mercedes Benz and a Range Rover. At least I knew my ride wasn't going to get dinged when they left.

So, there I was in Music City with no clue what I was doing. Apparently, I didn't see the YouTube instruction guide for the first day check in at a convention because I did absolutely everything wrong. When I finally had myself checked in, I returned to my pickup truck and, being careful not to put another scratch in the paint, I backed out and made my way to the motel I had chosen for my stay. It was a Days Inn. Should be decent, right?

Well, its location was a bit daunting as it was just a few steps, it seemed, from the 'hood and there was no doubt that I wasn't welcome there. But I checked in anyway and found my room, making sure no one was following me and that I locked the door securely behind me.

No, I'm not one who normally pigeonholes people. My parents didn't bring me up that way. But given the glares and cold reception I'd received I think I can be forgiven for thinking the worse of at least those I'd encountered upon my arrival. It hadn't escaped me as I passed it that the dollar store down the street had heavy iron bars over its windows, or that half of those windows were in less than good repair. Or that the streets were littered with trash made up of booze bottles and old newspaper, and who knew what else. But you get what you pay for, and I had been looking for decent and cheap. I got cheap anyway.

So, back in my room, I stowed all of my gear, hanging my clothes and the costume my aunt had made for me, and putting the rest in the dresser. When I opened the drawer in the bedside table I stopped and stared, my keen sense of the ridiculous sitting up and howling in delight, for there before me were two options for contraception. A condom and a copy of the Gideons Bible. I took a picture to show the folks back home.

After a quick shower I laid down and took a nap until late afternoon. At that time, I got back up and dressed for the welcome dinner, which, while not formal, was to be verrrry nice. Not exactly something I'm accustomed to, but I was game.

I didn't know that inside the packet given to me at the convention check in were the tickets needed to get in to dine. I didn't know that until after I made it through the initial set of entry doors where a bottleneck made things very slow going and where I had to endure more less-than-friendly stares, but at least those weren't hostile. Merely snooty.

Once inside the initial doors and in the entry foyer I was horrified to see that you needed tickets to get in! Where the hell did you get the tickets? At some point it dawned on me that they must have been in the packet they'd given me on check in. The one I'd only made a cursory look through. At that point I thought I'd had enough and turned to leave. But there was only one set of doors in and out of the foyer, hence the bottleneck, and I was too insecure to bully may way through the crowd, so I waited politely beside door for someone to graciously allow me to pass. Instead, what I received were more snooty stares, and more than one derisive look over and dismissal from would-be cover models there for a shot at winning a beauty contest (a reality we winsome short, chubby damsels must edure). NOW, I'd had enough and finally turned on my best pugnacious expression (imagine a pugnacious Cavalier King Charles Spaniel) and forced my way through the door and hurried back to the garage.

Before the day arrived for me to drive to Nashville, I had told friends and coworkers that my biggest fear was running into Fabio and finding myself alone with him. I know, I know. I'm not exactly drowning in feminine confidence even now. Back then it was practically nonexistent.

So, I soon found myself in the garage elevator with a bored guy from bookkeeping (had to be) and the doors started to close, when two big hands grabbed a door each and pried them back open. I thought I was going to die on the spot. My worst nightmare was coming true , I knew it! Instead, there was a very nice-looking hunk with an even nicer, genuinely warm smile who got on. Dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out, and still a little sweaty (but deliciously not smelly), it was obvious to me he had just come from a workout and was completely relaxed. He couldn't have missed my less than lukewarm welcome but nonetheless he said hello and nodded toward the badge that I HAD had the sense to wear.

"I see you're here for the convention."

I gave him a sour "well duh" look.

That didn't put him off and he tried again to make pleasant chit chat as the elevator began its slow trip down to the garage. He got off on the next level after the bookkeeper's, but by then my good humor had been restored and I'd decided I'd just go get my ticket and come back. Which I did. Had a lousy time being an obvious outsider and incurring more politely dismissive stares, but I toughed it out before returning yet again to my decent Days Inn accommodation. And finding someone had in my absence absconded with most of the good smelling things I'd brought along to pamper myself with during my romantic sojourn. Even the condom. They left the Bible behind.

And so ended my first day at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention.

While the friendly hunk in the elevator obviously would have known my name as it was on my badge, I hadn't asked his, and it was late the next day before I found out he was Sean O'Brien from Texas, another contestant in the cover model beauty contest. And whereas all of the other models continued to show their indifference and even downright disdain for me, Sean always made a point of pausing when he saw me to give me that lovely, friendly smile and ask how I was doing. And he always called me by name, even though my badge was almost always hidden behind the mountain of notebook and paper paraphernalia that I carried with me. Needless to say, he got my vote in the beauty contest. The tight leather pants had to have won the winner his prize because I already knew he was far from worthy of my vote. I might have voted him my garbage collector of the year, but it would be a real toss up between him and Cooter.

So, where do you fit in this adventure? Well, I'll tell you...

Over the course of the convention, I met many of my favorite authors and many that I'd never heard of before. Most were pleasant, some genuinely friendly, and I learned a lot about romance writing and the realities of what it meant to gain that all-important contract during their workshops. More on that in a moment.

After one luncheon I decided that I really wasn't up to listening to the sponsoring company's schpeal so I wandered back out into the lobby. It was all but deserted and blessedly quiet as I made my way past the check-in counter. Suddenly a door behind the counter banged open and a harried looking man in an executive's suit ran out, glanced at me, then yelled "Get security! Fabio's here!" and ran on past me like I wasn't there. I instantly panicked (remember my nightmare scenario?) and whirled on my toes...and there was Fabio not ten feet from me, a big goofy gorgeous grin on his face. I had the man all to myself, literally. I had what 99.9% of the women attending would have killed for. And what did I do? I stammered something remarkably intelligent like "Um, excuse me!" and damn near ran from the lobby!

My friends later chuckled as they wrote me off as a total loss.

The day of the Book Fair finally arrived, and this is where you come in.

Before I did anything else I showed up at the photographer's table wanting my picture taken with a model. I was the very first customer. He asked if I had chosen one. Of course, I said I wanted it taken with Sean so the call went out for Sean and when he came running and saw who it was, he laughed with what could only have been true delight. Then we were put on the dais and placed in a clinch pose (OMG did he smell good!), only to have the camera not work. The photographer told us to hold that pose while he took care of the problem, and I told him to take his time because I was in nooooo pain! I still have that picture and, yeah, it's a good one of the two of us. But what I like most about it is my expression. I was definitely in nooooo pain!

Following that I made the rounds of the tables and displays, once again meeting my favorite authors and some that I'd only just learned about that weekend. And then I came to your table, and I began to seethe. I hated you for dissing Fabio, remember? But I'd be damned if I was going to allow you to diss me! Like, what was I thinking with that, right? So, I waited my turn in line and watched. And listened. And at some point, I began to get the suspicious feeling that I was staring at someone like me. Who shared my kooky way of looking at life and who could understand my little quirks and oddities that most people didn't know how to take. Someone who could possibly have been a very good friend had we met in another lifetime. When it came my turn, I stepped forward and we had a nice chat while you signed a bookmark (I think it was) and I became convinced that we were star-crossed would-have-been friends and when I returned home, I immediately started reading everything I could get my hands on that you'd written to that date.

Three decades later, I've discovered your books again, having left the ranks of the Harlequin and Silhouette readers galaxy for a long time, and have been slowly reminding myself of what I'd loved about your books in the first place. And I was reminded once again of the connection that I had felt while I'd stood in that line and then chatted with you for a short time. I still absolutely adore your paranormal romances above all. I'm glad to see you're still an active writer, though it's obvious (to me anyway) that you're enjoying a slower lifestyle. Good for you! Smell those roses!

As for me, that convention changed my whole way of looking at what I wanted with regard to my own writing. I decided that I did NOT want a publishing contract. I realized that I wasn't willing to give up my personal and professional autonomy, even sell myself for the price of fame and fortune from writing a best seller. I write because it's what I am, not just what I do. I write because I get my most personal satisfaction from knowing that I'm touching my readers in special ways. Yes, it's an ego boost, I'm only human! But that's really not the most important thing to me. It's knowing that I've shared something on an intimate level with people I'll never meet, yet whom I have somehow met. Does that make sense?

I gave up trying to write the all-American romance novel when I realized that what I was doing was drawing out ad nauseum stories meant to be short or, at most, limited to being novellas. I decided not to even try to market those because I had already accepted that what I wrote there wasn't a commercial demand for, but I couldn't figure out what to do with them other than let friends read them. Then I discovered authorsden.com and there I found a home for myself as a writer. I've been a member since 2006, I think it was, first as a poet then as a short story author, and finally as an essayist, and over the years I've found myself a pretty loyal following, with my efforts in every genre, not only romance, nearly always on the corresponding category's popular reads lists. I've also found acceptance with other writers, including a mentor early on who steadied me and helped me find my bearings in my newly blossoming literary endeavors. He had total faith in my talent and abilities and showed it in his enthusiastic encouragement and willingness to call me to everyone's attention (he once challenged other male poets to write a poem to "a hot Navy brat" he knew) and even paid my dues for several years, before he finally passed. I think everyone who knew him on the den mourned him and I continue to think of him often, wondering what he would say if he could see me today. I kinda discovered that recently when the moderator of an online writers' group I attend prompted us to imagine we were servers in a restaurant when a writer, real or imagined, contemporary or historical, walks in. We were to write about what we overheard or what was said between us. Of course, I chose to "see" Georg again and it was rather strange that while I was writing the story I felt as if I kept slipping into an altered consciousness. When I had finished, I read what I had written and had the weirdest feeling that I'd just "channeled" him and that what I'd written were actually his words, not mine. It's probably just a delusion on my part but it's kind of nice that maybe it just might have happened as I'd written.

Thank you for all the laughs and sighs (and occasional moans), and for the kinds of heroes that I can still swoon over. And as for Fabio? You were right. He should have just remained in front of the camera being gorgeous. In my humble opinion, the ghosts who actually wrote those novels didn't live up to his billing anyway.

Meow.

Rebecca McKeehan  

c. 2023