Convention 2003 ROCKED!

This is about the second Writing.com Convention, held at the Sheraton in King of Prussia, PA from August 15-18, 2003.

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What was the convention like? Here's how I'll try to explain it...

Have you ever seen a movie so captivating that you run home and tell friends and family they absolutely HAVE to see it – the sooner, the better? You’re buzzing inside with excitement, revved up to share the electricity of this event. My best friend, Gina, once raced home from such a movie to literally drag me out the door and straight back to the movie theatre, where she sheepishly purchased a second ticket to the same movie she’d seen just hours before. As I watched the movie, I soon understood her fervor to allocate some of the emotion she’d felt. Halfway through the film, I began crying – silent, streaming tears which nearly erupted into sobs by the end and ceased only after the lights came on in the theatre, long after all credits had rolled. I could not explain why I cried, and Gina knew it. She reached for my hand, I white-knuckled hers, and we sat soaking in the shared, evocative experience.

The convention was kind of like that.

If you were there, we are now sitting together in the theatre after the lights have come up. We’ve experienced the same magic, so we don’t really need to say anything at all. But like the movie Gina saw, this year’s convention is an experience I am bursting with…a joy I’d like to share.

My friend Gina knew more about openly sharing joy than anyone I’ve ever known. Never the hoarder of happiness, she gave freely to everyone she encountered. My life and mind was saved, and changed, and stretched by her; she and I recognized a soul-language and spoke it fluently to one another. Then came the unexpected day last fall when Gina placed a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. In that instant, our language was abandoned; I found no voice but guilty stammers, shrunk by degrees into a new, frightening kind of silence.

I hadn’t written anything at all in years except dry, educational passages for freelance money, so it never occurred to me to brush off my dusty pen and express grief with written words. Instead I concocted a desperate remedy of Prozac and denial. I turned an inner switch to off and operated as a robot wife… a tired mother. Then a flail toward philanthropy through modestneeds.org led me to confide in one giver I met there, known to you all as lifewriter. She suggested I join a site called stories.com, soon to be in transition to writing.com. The date was December 15, 2002. I immediately became a registered author and never looked back. Within two months I’d already written twice as much as anything I’d ever written collectively before in the 33 years of my life.

Much of what I wrote initially was about Gina…exploring my rage, despair, hope, and endless questing for answers never coming. I found myself supported, encouraged, and embraced by this writing.com family. My incredible husband, Andy, encouraged me to write as much as I wanted -- so I did. I typed for hours on end, reviewing, writing, reading, rating, entering contests, and exploring the unbelievable opportunities and activities abounding here.

They say the writing saves the writer. It most definitely saved me; even as I considered joining Gina in stepping off the wheel, I was held in check by a strange, newfound need to write it all down. At the risk of sounding maudlin, I credit Writing.com as nothing less than a fresh soul-mating for me…a passage through solid rock, discovered at exactly the right moment in time.

So when a last-minute opportunity to go to the convention presented itself, you can be sure I was all about jumping on board. Thanks to the help, support and generosity of the The StoryMaster and The StoryMistress , I became the last registrant...then I abruptly panicked. I didn’t know very many of the attendees well. What if it’s like a big clique and they won’t let me in? What if nobody likes me? What if they make fun of me because I’m a skinny geek? Quickly I joined discussions in the attendees’ forum and found that everyone was easygoing and welcoming. Soon my anxieties were replaced by the thrill of the countdown, and I was like a restless kid at Christmastime. Again I acknowledge Andy, who cheerfully agreed to care for our 18-month old son Jonah single-handedly while I was away.

Today my memory of Convention weekend is a giddy blur marked by roller coaster loops and corkscrews of emotion. We were greeted with smiles, goodies, games, food, and hugs. We raced laps of the Sheraton’s beautiful pool within minutes of meeting one another. We joked and teased and cavorted late into the night. We sang karaoke, cheering for everyone regardless of skill. We composed campfire stories all day long, hysterical over gender-challenged leprechauns and Sesame Street monsters. We ate rich chocolates and danced to Rob Zombie and Baby Got Back. We pooled $225 at the scholarship auction to cut, style, dye, and mangle Zoo - Salted and Roasted ’s hair. And, far best of all, we were all witness to the The StoryMaster ’s “magic” proposal to the The StoryMistress .

It was open mic night, Saturday evening, and everyone who’d signed up to perform was nervous as hell...none as much as The StoryMaster , though; his was to be the ‘last act’; he surely nearly soiled himself with anticipation and nerves. Some sang, some gave life to characters through monologue, and some read poetry or prose. Each person shaking on that stage was afraid, and all for naught. There were no critics in our crowd. We heartily cheered and clapped for every participant, until finally it was The StoryMaster ’s turn. Only a scant few in the room had any inkling of what was about to take place. The rest of us watched cluelessly as The StoryMaster announced he’d be performing a magic trick.

Flourishing a magician’s black hat, he pulled a chair next to him and scanned the ‘audience’ for a volunteer. “How about The StoryMistress ?” he called, as if it were novelty alone that prompted his choice. I watched as she shook her head in bewilderment and walked, tentatively unsuspecting, onto the stage. The StoryMaster asked her to sit and inspect the hat, “to make sure it’s an ordinary, average hat.” She did so, still smiling in slight confusion. The StoryMaster made a “look over there!” joke to get her to turn away, and when she turned back, he dropped to one knee and handed her a small, red velvet box.

What happened next was the single most romantic thing I have ever seen. The StoryMaster ’s exact words and gestures are carved upon my memory – the look on The StoryMistress ’s face as puzzlement became realization…the tears that blurred my vision as I whimpered, “Oh God, say yes”…the collective gasp and whoop of the crowd, diving to the floor to snap photos of the proposal. The StoryMaster declared his love for the soulmate sitting before him and asked her to walk through life at his side. Though I couldn’t hear her answer, I knew as I watched them that it was most definitely affirmative.

The room absolutely exploded with excitement as if we’d collectively won a hundred million dollars. We hugged, cried, screamed, congratulated, and basked in celebration. It was both honor and privilege to be witness to such incredible love… such shared joy. Gina would have been proud.

After 11pm on formal (our final) night, I stumbled and felt my knee pop out and back in somehow, accompanied by a surreal blast of pain. Then I was on the floor watching fuzzy floaters fill my vision. After a few seconds my vision cleared, and a group gathered around to make sure I was okay. catwoman brought an ice pack for my leg. Because the night was drawing to a close, the DJ had planned to gather the remaining folk on the dance floor for a few special group-dances. They all could have easily left me sitting at the table, but instead my chair (and one to elevate my leg) was carried to the middle of the dance floor. A circle formed around me as we sang “We Are Family” and I fought tears of gratitude and belonging. Then The StoryMistress herself pulled a chair up next to me and we “chair danced” together, swaying our arms in the air and giggling with the silliness of it all. Diamonds sparkled on a slender finger of her long, black evening glove, reflecting shining gems in the collective eyes of everyone. Later I was escorted gently to my room so I could change and rejoin the crowd in our 24-hour lounge for laughter-filled card games of hearts and bullshit.

There are far too many tiny aspects of our weekend to even attempt further explanation. But I will say this: the convention was astounding. You have got to experience it (and especially the The StoryMaster and The StoryMistress ) for yourselves!

Years from now, I'll look back at this 2003 writing.com convention with the exact opposite of regret. Thank you, everyone reading this, for being part of the reason why.

I'll see you at the next convention!