I've leveled up as a writer.

Or, if you're more of a classic console type, I've punched my head into a brick, blinking with promise, and stumbled over the great fungal accolade that is an invitation to a writer's conference.

I was recently accepted to the Ohioana Book Festival, and I've been haunting their website in hopes of seeing whose company I won't be worthy of keeping (not to mention the many readers of my forever-home state). There will be books. There will be food trucks. There will be many readers licking greasy fingers before lovingly turning the pages of their latest acquisitions from the book fair. Who knows, maybe I'll even sign a book or two and my chicken scratch will seem enigmatic rather than the academic handicap it has been since high school. At the very least, all festival authors are asked to participate in at least one panel, and as I expect lame video game references won't be welcome, I'll keep you posted about my schedule on the events page.

And there will be ZenCha. Because a visit to Columbus without a visit to the Short North to guzzle tea would be unheard of. Don't make me drink alone?

The festival is on 10 May, which also seems like rather a good deadline to finish the draft of book two. It hounds me day and night as relentlessly as my toddler daughter but would, if books had the equivalent of child protective services, be seized for neglect. I suppose it's a good thing books don't have rights.

Yet.