A Little Conference Reportage

Val has just returned from the All Write Now conference, and boy, is her butt tired.

Okay. That may seem a bit indelicate, but Val is what she is. She can change neither her spots nor her stripes. What you see is what you get, a big ol' country bumpkin who thinks she has a flair for writing. And stretching the truth like saltwater taffy in a rustic candy shop at Silver Dollar City. The conference was actually Saturday, so she did not just get back, but has been back almost 22 hours now. It's not quite as dramatic, though, to say, "Val returned 22 hours ago from the All Write Now conference."

We'll get down to the meaty bones today, and suck out the marrow over the course of the upcoming week.

Our day started at 6:00 a.m. when we headed down the driveway on our adventure. More details (many, many more) in days to follow. Let's just say, "Move over, Odysseus! The Valyssey needs room on the shelf, and your little trip pales in comparison." Years from now, schoolkids will be bemoaning their required reading of this ol' Val.

The conference had a writing contest, you know. The Pony submitted three pieces, and Val submitted three pieces. Flash forward to the final session, the awarding of the awards. Val was safely ensconced in her last conference room. It could be curtained open to join the next room, as occurred at lunch for the keynote speaker, Angie Fox. Val patiently waited for The Pony to rejoin her to watch the awardage.

As Val sat there, happy as a pig in...um...pig stuff, after a day of soaking up writing tips and tactics, she thought, "If I win something, it will be the longest walk ever to the podium." She did not think of changing her seat. After all, the only thing she thought she might win was the Mystery Grand Prize. The Pony would be more than willing to trot up there and grab it for her.

They had both won a door prize already, Val's being the first one, The Pony all excited after checking the winning numbers. "I couldn't wait for you to get out of your session so I could tell you to claim your prize!" Indeed. Val selected a 5 x 8 fake- (or real if you're an eternal optimist) leather-bound journal, which she promptly handed over to The Pony for his poetry writing. When he won a couple of hours later, he selected a flowered 3.5 x 5.5 mini notebook, and gave it to Val. Take a shot of insulin if you're diabetic.

Oh, Val had hopes that she might place, fresh off her Honorable Mention recently in the Saturday Writers monthly contest. One can always hope. As she waited for The Pony, a conference organizer came into the room and declared that the dozen people waiting there must move next door for the awards. Okay. So much for that plan. At least The Pony was found, saving a seat in the back for dear ol' Val. He knows how she rolls.

The awards for poetry were first. The Pony sat up straight. He had three submissions, you know. Third Place: not him. Second Place: not him. First Place: not him. The air went out of The Pony like the air out of a statue-poked Woody Woodpecker balloon with one rope held by Mr. Pitt in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Val felt so bad for him. But he is, after all, a seventeen-year-old lad, competing against adult writers.

Next up, the flash fiction category. Neither of us had entered flash fiction. No hopes. No pressure.

Nonfiction was next. That's Val's wheelhouse. Her bread and butter. Her strong suit. The category which has garnered her publication, honorable mention, and 89th place in the 80th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition, Memoir/Personal Essay Category! Val had a tiny bit of hope. Like Genius each week when he receives his scratch-off lottery tickets. She had placed all of her eggs in this very basket. Three entries. Third Place: not Val. Second Place: not Val. The air stayed inside Val. The hope exited. Oh, well. There are other contests. The presenter could not stop a moment to let Val gather her dreams off the floor and stash them back in her doggy-patterned carry bag. "First Place, Val Thevictorian."

VAL THEVICTORIAN!

The Pony grinned from ear to ear. Val made her way up front to accept her award, managing not to trip like poor Jennifer Lawrence on her way to the podium. As she took possession, the crowd burst into laughter when the title of her work was announced. It was as good as that Millard High-Life scholastic faux pas.

The last contest was short stories. It had an honorable mention award. The presenter scrunched his face at the list. "I'm not sure how to say this one...Third Place, Pony...Thevictorian?" Let the record show that his name is not actually Pony, and not actually Thevictorian. It's a rather common first name. So Val was shocked when the first name was read, and The Pony was halfway to his feet. What was going on with that young 'un? Was he hoping against hope? She did not want him to be embarrassed. But there he was, proudly accepting his Third Place award for his short story. Val could not have been happier. Not even for her own success. The Pony trotted on air back to his seat.

"I didn't know you entered that category!"

"Duh. You PAID for my entries. How could you not know?"

"Um. YOU sent them in online and used my PayPal. The bill comes at the end of the month, and neither it nor the email confirmation mention the category. I though all three of your entries were in poetry."

"No. I had one in poetry, one in flash fiction, and one in short stories."

Wow. We were not even disappointed that we did not win the Mystery Grand Prize.