(Check out the photograph with Jo Eustace if you want to pick out Julie from the shoe line-up on the RNA blog!)
The RNA conference
Every time I’ve gone to a Romantic Novelists’ Association conference, it’s changed my life. Take the first one, for example, in Durham in 2002. Though I’d been chatting with some other RNA members on the net, and made good friends with some of them that way, I’d never met any of the people there in person. I’m pretty sure I’d never even met a published romance writer in person. And yet there I was, arriving late, halfway through dinner on the first night, into a room full of loudly chattering writers. I was terrified. What if they were all so brilliant they wouldn’t talk with me? Who was I to say I could write at all? I was unpublished, clueless, and had only ever been rejected.
The RNA conference
Every time I’ve gone to a Romantic Novelists’ Association conference, it’s changed my life. Take the first one, for example, in Durham in 2002. Though I’d been chatting with some other RNA members on the net, and made good friends with some of them that way, I’d never met any of the people there in person. I’m pretty sure I’d never even met a published romance writer in person. And yet there I was, arriving late, halfway through dinner on the first night, into a room full of loudly chattering writers. I was terrified. What if they were all so brilliant they wouldn’t talk with me? Who was I to say I could write at all? I was unpublished, clueless, and had only ever been rejected.
I was greeted by cheers and waves and hugs from my online friends. And it got even better from there: I met published writers, experienced writers, other newbies, all of them friendly and generous. I got down on my knees and asked my online buddy to be my critique partner. I walked along the river and saw the cathedral. I drank too much wine.
It was wonderful.
The following year, in 2003, I was drying my hands in the ladies’ room when the organiser of the New Writers’ Scheme came up to me and said, “I hear your manuscript submission this year was really good. You should send it to this agent.” Then she gave me a card. I had never, ever been told by an impartial stranger that my work was any good. I nearly cried. Then I drank too much wine.
The following year, in 2003, I was drying my hands in the ladies’ room when the organiser of the New Writers’ Scheme came up to me and said, “I hear your manuscript submission this year was really good. You should send it to this agent.” Then she gave me a card. I had never, ever been told by an impartial stranger that my work was any good. I nearly cried. Then I drank too much wine.

By the time of the Leicester conference in 2004, I’d acquired an agent, but I was still unpublished. But, basically because I am unembarrassable, I was giving the first workshop on writing sex scenes that the RNA had ever hosted. I’d done two interviews with national newspapers because of it, and another national profile piece and a television appearance would follow. And me, still an unpublished writer. Because of the RNA. That evening, after the workshop was over, I drank too much wine.
Two weeks later, I’d sold my first novel.
Then there was the first conference as a published author. The first where I actually got to sign books. The time where we all cried because our friend was told by an editor that her book had been bought; the time where we all cheered because a dear friend had placed in the Elizabeth Gouge award and then walked across a field barefoot, swigging champagne. The times when someone tells me I’ve managed to help them in some way, which is the best feeling ever. There were the shoes and the toasts and the workshops and the naughty kitchens and the meetings with editors and agents and the chance conversations with people whose books I love, and people whose books I am going to love, just as soon as they get published so I can read them.
Then there was the first conference as a published author. The first where I actually got to sign books. The time where we all cried because our friend was told by an editor that her book had been bought; the time where we all cheered because a dear friend had placed in the Elizabeth Gouge award and then walked across a field barefoot, swigging champagne. The times when someone tells me I’ve managed to help them in some way, which is the best feeling ever. There were the shoes and the toasts and the workshops and the naughty kitchens and the meetings with editors and agents and the chance conversations with people whose books I love, and people whose books I am going to love, just as soon as they get published so I can read them.
This year, in Kate Harrison’s workshop, she told us to set ourselves three achievable goals to improve our writing life. I started work on them the day after I got home. Other members helped me with research questions, with inspiration, with encouragement, with finding direction. And oh yes—I believe I drank too much wine.Mostly, I’ve made friends, and friends are what you need in this business, to fight the crows of doubt and the solitude and to celebrate the successes. Oh, and also shoes. And maybe just a teensy tiny little bit of wine...

Julie’s latest book is NINA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF GLOOM, available with free shipping here:http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9780755341412/Nina-Jones-and-the-Temple-of-Gloom
Her website is http://www.julie-cohen.com, she’s on Facebook as julie.cohen.author an
d her Twitter ID is @julie_cohen.

where that PR was one of the few industries not to suffer in a recession, and it got me thinking. Modern Heat is about glamour and what better excuse to write about parties? I then decided to give my heroine her own PR company and an over-achieving family and focused on what would be her worst nightmare. Everything else sort of slotted into place. Eventually.







