The Conference

This weekend I volunteered for the fourth year in a row at the Surrey International Writers Conference. I saw, yet again, internationally famous writers (whom I drool at) Diana Gabaldon and Jack Whyte. The incredible group of volunteers managed to get both of those two, as well as many other FAMOUS authors, including my *ahem... good friends (and yes I'm serious) Chris Humphreys and Ivan Coyote, both of whom I have a great deal of respect and admiration for, as artists and as human beings, and whom I am constantly inspired by and am truly honoured to know.

This Conference (notice the capital) is the highlight of my year, and I always come away from the three day program feeling infinitely energised, boundlessly inspired, and acutely aware of the true limitless power held by those of us who take the time to harness our creative energy.

This is not a "new" poem (well.. to most of you it is, but I mean I'm not counting it as a day) but I just had to post it because I am so enamoured by the atmosphere and the people at this conference.

The Conference

the hardcovers, the softcovers, the velvet covers
the writers, the readers

the swirling mass of electric creative energy

the clacking of shoes on the tile floors

the shuffling of elevator doors as the people come in, and out, and in, and out

the bustle of motion, to pitches, to meetings

to the bathroom, just one more time, just in case

laughing, greeting, even the smiles can be heard in the voices of a thousand artists

artists in the purest form

creating something from nothing

weaving words and spinning sentences into whole worlds which never were before

the tapping of laptops

and scratching of pencils

the hushed, whispering madness of writers’ minds, and hands, at work

the spotlight

the blinding, neverending bright white spotlight searing a beautiful hole in your life’s work

a hole to be filled with harder work

with better words and properly punctuated perfection

this is the conference

the moment to shine

the second to split the good from garbage, the talent from the trash

the last moment to cling to, to clutch, to hold

the hardcovers, the softcovers, the velvet covers

your cover