The summer sun felt warm on my back as I stepped into the dim lobby of the hotel. Inside, the air was cool, even overly air-conditioned, and heavy with the scent of desperation, which only made sense. I was at a writers' conference.
I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.
"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.
"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.
"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.
What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.
"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.
And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.
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