How the Romance Writers of America conference compares to the original women’s rights conventions

Whether in the 19th century or 21st century, magic happens when masses of women get together

Ever since I first stumbled into Romancelandia, over twenty years ago, my summers were marked by the Romance Writers of America (RWA) annual convention (known as “nationals”), always held in July. The energy was wild, as a few thousand writers, almost entirely women, packed a year’s worth of socializing, networking and dressing up into three jam-packed days. The sound of so many women’s voices all at once is a sound I haven’t heard anywhere else or since, except maybe a Taylor Swift concert.

For months leading up to it I obsessed over outfits and planned swag. I put together a packed schedule of signings, parties, workshops, meetings, gatherings with friends. Every minute of every day was scheduled. Sometimes I had a few minutes to sneak back to my room to lie down or change shoes. Sometimes I mustered the energy and courage to sit in the hotel bar and just see who I would meet. Every year I seemed to find myself alone with Nora Roberts in a random place—the ladies room, an elevator, a hallway.

For “nationals,” me and the other authors crawled out of our writing caves and switched the soft pants for pretty clothes. We left behind families, day jobs and other obligations. Most importantly, we also left the snark behind—all the friends and family who didn’t “get” romance, who laughed at us about unrealistic expectations, Fabio, lady porn and silly novels. We left behind a culture that told us our stories were dangerously deceptive fantasies and that we were foolish for reading and writing them. We gathered with our people—the ones who also knew about HEAs, shapeshifters, wallflowers and enemies to lovers without raised eyebrows or asking for an explanation. We listened to inspiring, tear-inducing keynote speeches of authors who had “made it.” We reveled in this thing we all loved with pure joy—no shame, no apologies.

I think these few days helped sustain many of us.

A lot of it was about socializing, networking and promoting our books. But a lot of it was about learning and we taught each other. Experienced and bestselling authors gave craft workshops on pacing, emotional tension, how to write a great sex scene. We taught each other about contract clauses and negations, pitched our books to agents and editors, and shared tips on social media and promo that worked.

I was lucky to go almost every year and I marked the progress of my career by those conventions. The year I first attended. The year I went as a published author. The year I was finally an Avon Author and got to attend the exclusive Avon party. The year I met my author besties. The year I taught my first workshop. The year I had more meetings than hang outs. The year I didn’t know it was my last.