Lines Between Living

I woke up early and I was excited. Doors opened at 10 but I knew better than to show up at 10. This was a convention people had been talking about for months. So I got there early, and sure enough, when I turned the corner to find the entrance, the line was already wrapped around the block.

I waited at least 45 minutes before they let us in.
And when they did, it was a massive amount of people spread across four floors. All I could think was: we are all here for the same reason. We love books. That was it. That was the thread connecting every single person in that building.
Later I found out that while I was inside in awe, absorbing everything, studying the room, people were online complaining that it was too crowded. And I understand that. But that’s not what this is about.
This is about what it felt like to be in the room.
I didn’t go as a fan this year. I went as a writer doing her homework.

I walked those floors with my eyes wide open, asking myself: what does this feel like from the other side of the table?

Because that’s where I’m headed. I told myself right there, out loud: next year, I’m coming back as an author.

I met some incredible people. I picked up books that called to me. I picked up a little Edgar Allan Poe magnet and now he lives on my writing wall, staring at me every time I sit down to write.

I sat on a Naturepedic mattress at a booth, held up a book, and let someone take my picture like it was the most natural thing in the world, because it was.

I stood in front of a backdrop that said I See Books In My Future and I believed it.

Con mucho amor. That’s what one of the authors wrote in my book. With much love. That’s the energy of BookCon, underneath all the crowds and the chaos. People who made things, sharing them with people who needed them.
I needed this day more than I knew.
The floor was packed. My feet hurt. I was tired before I even got there. And still, I left full.
That’s the writer’s life, isn’t it? You show up tired. You find something that feeds you anyway. You go home and you write about it.
See you next year. On the other side of the table.