I take perverse (and annoying) pride in the fact that I can pack everything I need for a workweek on the road in a 17-inch roller bag. Three months in Europe? A 30-inch Kipling wheeled duffle bag, which I dubbed the Beast.
But what do I bring for five days at RWA? A 24-inch wheelie, a backpack and a huge purse.
I’m not sure what happened. My room at the Marriott looks like my closet threw up. Shirts, slacks and shoes are everywhere. And I just noticed that I brought four pairs of shoes.
Oddly, I did this last year, and the year before. I don’t know what it is about this conference, but I never know what to wear. Business casual seems, well, too formal. Stained T-shirts and pajama bottoms (the typical uniform of writers everywhere) too casual, but I envy those who can pull it off here, and formal wear is de rigor for the award ceremonies.
And judging by the size of the the other suitcases in the lobby, I'm not the only one with an overpacking problem. An author friend of mine described this conference as 2,2000 introverts pretending to be extroverts. Another description might be 2,000 writers who have to fill blank space--whether it's on a page or in a steamer trunk.
OK, now I’m going to rummage through my clothes and see if I have anything decent to wear. Yesterday, I saw a woman wearing the same sundress I brought (hate when that happens), so I’ll have to find something else for today. Given the size of the pile of clothes on the bed, that might take a while.
Ciao, ciao
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