We are not elves!
Here's the thing, I'm supposed to be leaving for my publisher's sales conference this afternoon. When I told my daughter the first thing she said was, "what are you going to wear, Mom?" um, that was a good question because we writers pretty much get to work in our jammies or sweats and no one knows and no one cares. But occasionally we are lured out of our dens to attend some kind of public function. Which I enjoy. I love meeting people. I think it's the only way readers know that writers are real and not Elves living in a shoe, tapping out stories under the light of the mysterious Moonberry plant.
So I went shopping. I bought real clothes and even a pair of real shoes which I wore to church yesterday and I got to say, my feet were not happy. They like being inside my Chucks, of which I own several pair in many colors. Joseph had his coat, I have my Chucks. But in the interest of what is, apparently, proper I bought some new stuff, pretty stuff, casual but nice clothes to wear on my trip that will hopefully take me from my writerly frumpiness to fashionista—no not really. I don’t think I ever want to be called a fashionista. It makes me think of women in gray business suits goose-stepping in strappy sandals down the street. Not for me.
But doing this has raised a serious question for me. What's my style? I think as a writer I would like to have a style, something fun and quirky like my books yet not clownish. I'm thinking about a tattoo. Writers should have a style don't you think? I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out.