Over the years, I’ve attended scores of conferences and workshops. Some were for my work in another field but in recent years, most have been writing related. One of my favourites is When Words Collide, held every August in Calgary, Alberta – https://www.whenwordscollide.org/.
WWC bills itself as a “festival for readers, writers, artists and publishers of commercial and literary fiction, including genre, YA, children’s books, and poetry.” It completely volunteer run and the registration fee for an adult is $40. That’s the cost of a mid-range dinner entrée. And the jam-packed agenda of sessions serves up full value. It’s no wonder over six hundred eager folks from North America attend every year.
One workshop I attended—can’t remember the topic—included this interesting couple. He looked to be in his sixties. She appeared to be in her thirties. Nothing special about that.
What was unusual was the fact that she could not keep her hands from his person. She’d caress his cheek, stroke his hair, his arm, his thigh. Lovely, in private. But in a packed hotel meeting room under the glare of fluorescent lights, it was somewhat disturbing for some of us in the audience.
When I glanced around, several other attendees looked like they wanted to say something; no one did. He sat impassive through the whole forty-five minute presentation. She reminded me of someone grooming their cat. Or fondling a favourite pipe.
To each his/her own.