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So my Wonderful Husband™ and I went out for a walk and ended up at a local McDonald's. No big deal, you can find McDonald's in Taiwan and Korea and Russia and ... you get the picture. Anyway, most chain fast food restaurants have something regional that will sell better in the local area than any place else. For example, in a KFC in Taiwan they don't serve corn-on-the-cob, they serve corn chowder.
Here in Atlanta, they were selling a Southern Style chicken sandwich. It was comparable to a Chick-Fil-A, sort of. McDonald's also serves sweet tea, something that is unique to this region of the U.S. I'm from California, sweet tea is non-existent there.
But what surprised me most is the difference in Coca-Cola.
When I was little, Coke universally tasted wonderful in the can or bottle. I've felt the taste of Coke (as a person living in California) has become different, less refreshing. I can't say exactly why, I live in Downey, California, only a few miles from a Coca-Cola bottling plant. But a strange after taste has been creeping in steadily over the year, making Coke less than pleasant as a drink for me.
When we got to the Atlanta Marriott Marquis, I went to a soda machine and got a Coke for hubby and a diet Coke for me. It tasted wonderful, like a Coke used to in California. Maybe it's the water, I don't know. All I know is I want to buy the world a Coke and keep it company.
More tomorrow from Atlanta,
Sandra Richards
Well, I've completed both of my pitches, and I think my agent appointment didn't go as well as my appointment with my editor, which was totally backwards of what I had hoped.
It's hard to read them. And the person who had the appointment before me with the agent ran over, which didn't help my time at all. However, she did request a partial on my finished work and we'll go on from there.
I'm probably just suffering after pitching nerves, though.
My editor appointment also garnered a request for a partial, but I expected that. What I liked hearing were the words, "This sounds like precisely what we're looking for."
I'm going out to dinner to celebrate.
I loved the PRO Retreat. Very inspriational. I left about half-way through to help set up the luncheon. I like setting up the luncheons, because I can snag a table near the front and wait for the rest of the attendees to be admitted.
Meg Cabot, who wrote the book The Princess Diaries that became a Disney movie, was due to speak. Our chairs were back to back, and she came in with a friend to sit. Now, we'd put copies of a special edition of The Princess Diaries as well as her new work, Size 12 Is Not Fat, on every chair.
Including Meg Cabot's. **L**
She turned to me and held out the books. "Would you like another set of these? I've read them already."
I grabbed a pen and asked her to sign them, which she graciously did.
She was fun to hear speak, and her experience while Disney was making the Princess Diaries movie were a bit of an eye-opener to how the film industry works. They ruthlessly killed off Mia's father (he's alive and well in the book) in order to woo Julie Andrews to play the part of the queen/grandma. I keep wondering how I'd feel about it all, but then again, I think I might have Meg Cabot's reaction, which was as follows:
Disney: We want to kill off Mia's father.
MC: What did he do?
Disney: We have a well-established actress we would like to have play the queen, but the queen doesn't have many lines. We thought, if we killed off Mia's father, we could give his good lines to the queen.
MC: Who's the actress?
Disney: Julie Andrews.
MC: Kill him!
Most of the day was spent in the chapter presidents retreat. I have to say this is the best leadership meeting I have ever attended.
Bob Harris (www.nonprofitcenter.com) spoke at great length on how to run, protect, and guide an association. It brought home to me just how selfless the good women (and men!)who attempt to lead a chapter are. There was much discussion about the joys and heartaches of being in charge, and the afternoon session ended with break-out groups solving hypothetical problems that turned out to not be so hypothetical as each group had at least one person whose chapter experienced the problems up for discussion.
I didn't sleep well, so I'm taking it easy tonight, doing some down time, with some practicing my pitches in the bathroom. Gotta remember that Friday is only two days away.
See you tomorrow,
Sandra
Can I move here mommy? I love the feel of the city, and that's all there is to it. Walking through it, talking to the natives, it just feels comfortable and good.
Turner Field is every bit as gorgeous in person as it looks on TV. It was 80s mullet night, too, so the fans acted goofy to old school jams. Braves lost by one, but saw some spectacular plays. I'm going to see them again on Sunday, after conference is over.
The MARTA train is easy to use, and the connecting bus and shuttle system makes this an easy place to get around. Now, this part of Atlanta is as big as my thumbnail, it isn't as spread out as Los Angeles. Maybe that's why I like the area so much. There's this big city feel surrounded by loads of trees and parks.
When we came back from the game, there was a message light on my phone. It was a message from someone I didn't know who is staying at this hotel. When I phoned them back, it turns out she was calling for **drum roll** The Other Sandra Kleinschmit. She also told me that when the Other Sandra checked in today, the hotel told her she'd already checked in! I hope I get to meet her this week.
Tomorrow morning I start early -- I'm attending the Presidents Conference.
Night all!
My knees are killing me. I spent my volunteer time of two hours helping stuff the goody bags given away here a Nationals. A goody bag is good size book bag sutffed with books, and I do mean stuffed. This year everyone gets 18 books in their goody bag. The women who hefted the bags around, or rearranged the books so the bag could zipper shut, should be given a medal. Me? I can't lift, doctor's orders, so I was adding one little item to all the bags so the other volunteers could concentrate on the books. I don't know how they do it with so much energy. Wait, yes I do. I saw several empty TAB Energy drink cans in the corner. Hm. **L**
My hats off to Stephani Fry. She smiles, she jokes, and she has to be hassled, setting up the goody bags, the goody room. It's a lot of work, even just putting Avon Book invitations into the book bags.
The lovely and talented Peggy Emard also joined us, and she had a smile for us. She remembered me, even though we'd only met briefly in Reno. I'm impressed.
Okay, so here's the real scoop about what I want to do this conference. Forget my appointments, I'm on a mission: Find Sandra Kleinschmit.
I write under Sandra Richards, but my legal last name is Kleinschmitt. I've known for years that there is a romance author named Sandra Kleinschmit (one "t" no "d", I'm "tt" no "d.") Before my mother retired, people used to come up to her and say, "Did you daughter write a book? I saw a book in the airport and the author's name is Sandra Kleinschmitt."
When I got into the hotel, the lovely and talented Jason Sanders (who should be put on a medal as the Patron Saint Of The Credit Limit Challenged) mentioned that I had another room reserved. HAH!
I must meet her! Somewhere, no matter how far back we will have to go, we are related. With that name? How could we not be?
I'm having a blast. Now ... I'm going back to the other challenge I have -- getting my husband out of the Bed Of Luxurious Comfort in time to catch the Braves beat the Marlins tonight!
I'll check back later!
Don't Stop Writing,
Sandra
After getting no sleep, then getting a flight at 8:20 in the morning, I was hungry. We'd eaten some pizza for breakfast, because we didn't see anything on our airline tickets saying we got a meal.
We didn't. It was snacks all the way over, and my blood glucose was a bit off. I was shaky from lack of sleep, let alone lack of real nutritional content. All in all, the flight was nice, and the stewardess kept an eye on me when she learned I was diabetic.
Through my own oversight, I forgot to check what the limit was on my ATM/VISA card. The one slam I have on Marriott is they cannot treat a VISA Debit card like a credit card because they're dealing with an older system computer-wise. So, they tried to charge my room for the entire week-long stay and it was declined. After a long call to the bank, and one very grumpy/shaky/out-of-it diabetic (me!) unable to comprehend the entire situation or the solutions being offered, Jason Sanders of the Marriott was able to figure a way for me to keep my room all week, but be able to work within the skimpy limit my card has for an allowance. While I was grateful for his efforts after I finally had some real food in me, I must say he went beyond graceful in his handling of what I know was a difficult situation. I wasn't in a great mood, though, when I started up to the hotel room, and I wasn't looking forward to much but dinner. It seemed like such a hassle.
I gotta tell you, the bed alone was worth it all. We got a king size, and not only did it have six puffy pillows, there was a comforter and a "feather" bed (made with a man-made fiber and not feathers) that was a joy to sink into. I am currently trying to figure out how to attend the conference from my bed.
I can't say my view is great, but the room itself is a real picture, the business desk is roomie, there's coffee and a coffee maker (not instant!), a hair dryer and a full size ironing board with steam iron in the closet. There're granite tops on the bathroom counters and the TV stand/chest of drawers. I also love that the lamps all have electrical outlets built into their bases so you don't have to fumble around for a wall outlet. That made plugging in my computer and my cel phone's charger so easy. And the lamp doesn't have to be on for the outlet to work.
We had dinner at Champions, a sports bar. I highly recommend this place for eating. While there is a bit of noise -- they have recorded pop music playing all the while many silent screens show every sporting event in progress-I didn't find it to be overwhelming my conversation. The booths are comfortable, prices reasonable and the food is excellent. My husband had a bleu cheese burger that was about the tastiest thing I've ever had a bite of. I had a pulled pork BBQ sandwich with a cabernet sauce that I'm thinking of having for dinner again Wednesday. Or tonight.
For those still to arrive, be warned it was a 25 minute wait at the registration desk on Monday evening, and there was only about a dozen people waiting with me.
We writers know overwhelming odds. Getting to write The End when you complete a manuscript is a moment fought for by all of us. James Patterson likened finishing a novel to a task no less difficult than sailing around the world.
Today I pack and finish the last minute details needed for going to Nationals, and I can't help but think about the places I'm going to see, the things I'm going to do: I hope to stand in the room where Margaret Mitchell penned one of the most famous romances in publishing history; I want to be awed by the beauty of nature at the new aquarium everyone tells me I should not miss; I think about the nerves I have surrounding my editor and agent appointments, and how I want to simply nail them and come away with requests for fulls.
But, that will all be set aside on Tuesday, July 25, 2006 when I stand in front of the marker where Henry "Hammerin' Hank" Aaron stood on April 8, 1974, as he knocked a fast ball over the left field fence of Fulton County Stadium in the fourth inning in front of 53,775 screaming Atlanta Braves fans.
Watching Hank Aaron play, the joy on his face when he was on the field was obvious and complete. The worry wasn't there when he hit the ball, not the moment he had to concentrate and do his job. In spite of everything happening around him in 1973 and the Winter of 1974, he persisted. He showed up to train, he travelled with the team, he produced the runs and fielded the balls that came to him in right field. He kept his dignity throughout it all.
He also endured death threats on himself, and his college daughter; there was an abortive attempt to kidnap her. He hired a bodyguard to be with him everywhere. All because he was born black and was on the verge of tying and breaking Babe Ruth's home run record.
As a 14-year-old white girl living in the San Fernando Valley, I rooted for Hammerin' Hank. I have always felt records are made to be broken, that we should all aspire to go beyond the greats, setting the bar higher for the next generation. I knew, in spite of my being a woman, I would never face the same adversity as Hank Aaron did in his lifetime.
When I stand with my Wonderful Husband™ at the marker where Aaron hit home run number 715, I hope to soak up the achievement and take some of it with me. I'll never have to hire a bodyguard to go to my computer and write. My stepson will never be threatened or nearly kidnapped if I win more RITAs than Nora Roberts. I will, however, love what I do with the same passion, and remember that the same thing inside Hank Aaron that made him persist and wreck that baseball to conquer the Babe lives in me, too.
In the face of that, hitting one out of the park at my appointments should be a piece of cake.
See you all in Atlanta!
Don't Stop Writing,
Sandra Richards
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