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As I prepare to attend my 21st national RWA conference, I think back to the ghosts of conferences past.

The first one, in Dallas (I won’t mention the year, it was in the Dark Ages) was memorable for many reasons: the long drive from Kansas City to get there, and the speeding ticket in Oklahoma; my roommate Dolores, a good friend who died a few years later; the absolute chaos that was hotel check in. My first-ever editor and agent appointments (I sold my first book to that editor, and the agent became my first agent, so the conference was well worth my time and money.) The Mary Kay ladies.

Then there was the famous conference in Seattle, with the infamous publisher party involving a cross-dressing Glenda-the-Good-Witch, a living centerpiece (man in gold lame bikini covered in gold body paint) and scantily-clad, “Village People” style male models who were at least as freaked out as we were. This was my first conference as a published author, and I was assuming all publisher parties would be like that!

Some of the conferences run together in my mind. I do remember the one in St. Louis during a devastating flood. The hotel staff couldn’t get in to work. And the one in New York, where 11 of us shared a suite and my pregnant friend took down a mugger. (She sat on him while waiting for the police to get there.) There were conferences where you couldn’t buy an elevator, and climbing up 17 flights of stairs was the norm, and conferences where you couldn’t buy a bathroom and had to sneak into the men’s (or climb those 17 flights …). Nowadays, RWA doesn’t choose a hotel that doesn’t have adequate bathrooms and elevators—and they convert the men’s rooms to women’s, much to my husband’s dismay.

Who could forget the conference in Hawaii? Only about 500 people attended, and a new level of casual attire was established. (Many of us wore shorts to the awards ceremony.) After that conference, I never again packed a suit to wear to RWA. Yes, we used to do that—get all dressed up with stockings and heels every single day!

I remember conferences where I didn’t attend a single workshop (probably because I thought I knew it all—ha!). I would spend the entire week in the hotel lobby on a certain sofa, chatting with whoever chose to light there for a few minutes. I lost count of how many times I heard “Are you still here?” And one conference that I spent mostly in my room crying, positive my career was over and everyone hated me.

This conference, though, I’m feeling much more like a freshman as I enter a new phase of my writing life. This year I chose not to volunteer to teach any workshops or participate in the literacy signing. I’m excited about attending workshops and buying books and possibly networking with editors and agents on elevators and at the bar. I bought new luggage. I’m agonizing over my clothes and hair (though there’s not much left to worry about with the hair—I cut it all off two days ago). I’m looking forward to losing my voice.

I wonder what I’ll remember about D.C. in 2009. A hotel disaster? Or a fortuitous meeting with the editor who will change my career? Food poisoning, or singing Barry Manilow songs in the bar with a new friend? The only thing I know for sure is that I can’t predict. And I guess the only thing I’ve learned is not to have too many expectations. What happens, happens. If it’s good–great! If it’s bad, I’ll be able to laugh about it someday.

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