(Sorry about the weird numbering — I realized this topic belonged here, and brother, it’s a doozy.)
My first literary convention was in Evanston, Ind. A man I admired (and would one day marry) convinced me to come along with him and some friends. The guest of honor was Gary Gygax, the creator of the original Dungeons and Dragons. I still remember the thrill of that drive, the butterflies as we checked in, wandering wide-eyed through the huckster’s room (today they blandly call it the vendor’s hall), wishing I had enough money to buy everything in sight. I sat in on writing workshops and geeky panels, rolled dice in pickup D&D games with strangers, and soaked in the wonder of
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