Seriously—want to see me whimper like a kicked puppy? Tell me I have to go into a room full of people I don’t know and instruct me to introduce myself to them. I’d just as soon hand over my fingers and a stack of bamboo shoots and tell you to have at it.

I did not, however, have the Great Big Flip Out. Mostly because attending this conference was in many ways what attending RWA National has become to me. It was like coming home.

I got to hear my dear, dear friend Alyssa Day give the keynote the first evening of the conference and it got me thinking about some things. One was that after hearing her kick-ass keynote, I may never feel confident in attempting to give one myself (seriously, it was that good) and I imagine if I tried, I’d bore people silly. I don’t pretend to be any good at addressing large groups—I’m good with small groups. I love the give and take of conversation and debate and the tangents that can emerge. (Once an academic…) Second thing was if by some grace of the fates I was ever asked to give a keynote, what on earth could it be on?

Actually, that one, I think I can answer. I think it would be on writing and the importance of friendship.

I write not only because I have to and because I have stories to tell, but also because it suits my personality to a t. I’m fairly introverted by nature and am quite content with my own company, yet at the same time, I’m not misanthropic… much. I enjoy conferences because it allows me the ability to be social for a set time and then I can crawl back into my writers cave and recharge. But then, I started realizing the side benefit of conferences—I started seeing more people I knew. We had shared experiences! Similar ups and downs! Not since being a full-time musician had I found a tribe that welcomed me with such open arms. And even better than when I was a musician, we had the Internet to connect us and keep us together when we couldn’t physically be together.

Which is why I was able to move three thousand miles across the country and feel as if I’d come home. I had friends here, already. And it was like the old Breck commercials. Because then I met two friends. And met two more friends. And this past weekend at the conference, it was like an explosion of lustrous hair product. So many friends. Some whom I hadn’t even met face-to-face, but who I knew. Friends who have helped me through some of the worst times of my career and have been the loudest cheerleaders at the successes. For whom I hope I do the same.

I love writing friends. And for the first time in my life, I find that I love having women friends more than men. Publishing is such an odd, hierarchical profession. It’s one of the few where women really wield huge amounts of control, both in the buying/selling sector as well as the creative content sector. Yet, depending on the genre in which we choose to write, we can still be the brunt of much abuse and ridicule and outright bullying. (Which is a whole other keynote, if you will—publishing’s too damned hard for us to backbite each other.)

All my life, I pretty much related better to men than women—until I became a professional writer. The women I have met in publishing are so freakin’ smart and dedicated and savvy and take crap from absolutely no one. They come to writing from across the spectrum of life and career experiences and are so often generous with their time and knowledge. How many other professions give you that as well as someone with whom to laugh uproariously over highly inappropriate comments and innuendo and just the basic absurdities of life?

I guess what I’m saying is that if I was writing a keynote, it would probably be an exhortation for my fellow writers to go out and find those people if they already haven’t. To welcome the new friends and to allow yourself to feel welcome. Nowhere else are you going to find individuals who so thoroughly get you. Who will hold your hand and prop you up and cheer you on.

Thank you, to my darling, lovely friends for giving me such an amazing gift.

And thank you, Emerald City Writers Conference for providing the stage on which we could gather. This weekend will serve as a touchstone for the dark, lonely moments that are always a part of every writers life. I’ll be able to laugh, recalling any number of moments (usually in the bar…) and better still, I’ll be able to email or call any number of friends with whom the bonds were deepened just that little bit more this weekend.

The latest bit of WTF-ery to hit the web is some wingnut complaining about books in the schools. Specifically, about taking them out because he has “issues” (imagine that said in a Stewie Griffin sort of voice, with the sibilant “s”). He doesn’t think the tender children should be exposed to such… ickiness. Not just his children, but all children. Those of you who followed me over at my old blog know how I feel about this. Anyone who wants an idea, you can check out this post on my former hometown of Jacksonville acquiescing to some bully of a parent with respect to a book. Rather than engage in a rational discourse with the teachers or administrators, she went straight to that tried-and-true method of siccing a news outlet on the school. Because negative publicity is so much more effective, dontcha know? (In this case, it was. Not only did the school remove the book from the summer reading list, the entire freakin’ district followed suit.)

Then, not two weeks later, I had reason for another rant on the subject as Ellen Hopkins was disinvited from a Teen Lit book festival because one middle school librarian decided Ellen was a danger or… something, but rather than raise her concerns with the book festival organizers, instead informed some parents (no doubt the nosiest rabble-rousers) that Ellen’s works were inappropriate and that the kids shouldn’t be exposed to her and then those parents went to the school superintendent rather than, you know, bring their concerns (which really weren’t theirs to begin with) to the festival organizers.

Once again, the end-around was successful—but with unintentional consequences. Yes, Ellen was disinvited (in a rather rude manner by the superintendent) but in response, four other invited authors also pulled out in solidarity. Ultimately, the book festival was canceled. The parents and that self-righteous librarian won, but the kids, they lost.

Now we’ve got another end-around happening, with Laurie Halse Anderson the target. She breaks the situation down on her website in grand manner, but the gist is this—now we’ve got a guy using religion and morality as his mouthpiece by which to dictate the curriculum of the public school systems (hair starting to burn) and in the process, equating rape with pornography. (head fully on fire, on verge of exploding)

Needless to say, the blog and Twitter-spheres have absolutely gone bonkers. Mr. Paul Hankins, an Indiana-based English teacher and all around good guy, started the hashtag #SpeakLoudly for people to pass the message that this is absolutely insane and that we should not remain quiet, the way that the wingnut would want us to. And in continual acts of bravery, I have seen countless posts where people are talking about their experiences as rape victims/survivors, as well as several people opening up about their views on religion and how they reconcile their religious lives with their secular (and if you don’t think that’s brave, then you’ve never opened yourself up like that). Best post so far, author Myra McEntire who discusses her own personal relationship with religion and God and Jesus as well as her feelings as a writer. Again, not easy to do and she does so with grace and dignity.

I’m not a religious person, although I am spiritual. I’ve never been raped, although it was a major turning point in my novel, It’s Not About the Accent and I tried my very best to treat it with the respect and sensitivity the subject deserves while not shying away from portraying it as the horrible act it is.

It’s not sexy. It’s not arousing. And it is most certainly not a pornographic act, designed for the entertainment of the masses. An individual (note, I do not specify man or woman), who is aroused by the act of forcibly making their partner submit—causing them pain, both physical and emotional, is a sick individual. And, according to our laws, a criminal. To imply that it’s a) the fault of the victim or b) somehow exciting to those reading about it is repugnant.

I am a very live and let live individual. I have great respect for those whose beliefs are different from mine. However—don’t presume to tell me how I should believe. Don’t tell me I should believe in exactly the same way you do or that makes me wrong. And above all, do not tell me how to parent my child by dictating what they should or should not read or see.