It’s Your Conference, You Can Cry If You Want To

Published November 3, 2026

by Marin Stratus

I am in the women’s restroom of the DoubleTree hotel. It is day 2 of PPWC, and I am blinking back tears at a conference. Again.

But this time, they aren’t the kind of tears brought on by criticism or exclusion. Instead, this was the kind of emotional tidal wave that rises up when you realize you’ve finally found the place you were meant to be. 

Most of my past experiences with conferences have followed the same rough template: I would tag along as part of a small group of fellow graduate students, quaking as we presented academic posters on our research, furtively tracking the movements of the untouchable names in the field who were always being whisked from keynote to presentation to book signing. 

At some point during each of these conferences, snarky public corrections during presentations or brush-offs from respected researchers triggered a rapid retreat to the nearest quiet corner to regroup. 

Tears of humiliation and frustration flowed, paired with the realization that no matter how hard I tried to succeed in my desired academic field, there was no end in sight. There would always be more ivory towers, more nepotism, more locked doors I would never be invited behind. Many writers know the feeling of being on the outside of an insider culture, and I had never experienced that so strongly as I did at academic conferences.

The conferences didn’t exactly leave me energized, to say the least.

I’ve painted a dreary picture here, but if you’ve ever been to the Pikes Peak Writer’s Conference, you know that this is not that kind of conference. At PPWC, there were no ivory towers in sight. No locked doors (except for utility closets and the like, but for the sake of the metaphor let’s say no locked doors). PPWC’s incredible faculty and staff, as well as volunteers and other attendees, were paragons of inclusion during the entire event, creating a welcoming environment that was unforgettable. 

After nearly a dozen “conferences” masquerading as opportunities for bragging and putting-on-airs, I had finally found a conference that was truly designed to include everyone, from the newest writer to the most seasoned, published novelists. 

For the first time, I attended a conference and thought: this is what a conference is supposed to be. This is where I am supposed to be. On the first morning of PPWC, I found myself in a room full of other first-time attendees, being provided with context, etiquette tips, and a roadmap for what a conference should look like. The clear orientation and expectations set up front helped attendees engage more deeply with sessions and networking. And for a room full of writers, many of whom naturally lean introverted and anxious, that kind of intentionality makes all the difference.

At some conferences – we all know the type – the workshops are really just thinly veiled advertising blocks. At PPWC, every single workshop I attended was full of tangible, practical advice from authors and professionals who genuinely cared about their material and wanted to share their knowledge with other writers. From engaging writing exercises to checklists and how-to guides, I came away with extensive notes on how to improve my craft and dozens of practical ways to improve my writing in real time. For example, an incredible 17-point checklist from Kelley Lindberg that I downloaded from the Sched app and immediately used the week after the conference!

One of the most impactful differences I noticed was the approach to networking. At PPWC, I found doors opening before me left and right. Some of my most memorab4le experiences as a fledgling writer unfolded at the conference:

• Real connections forged with other “baby” writers, as well as authors who have been published many times over
• Professional yet human interactions with editors, agents, and other industry professionals at meals
• Genuine laughter at my headshot appointment (and thank you, Allen, for the best headshots I’ve ever had!)

Bowen Gilling’s Sunday workshop entitled “Be the Author YOU Want to Be” was especially instrumental in my renewed passion for the writing craft. He presented the idea that there are many different types of writers, from hobbyists to artists to bucket-listers, and that there is room for every kind of writer at the table. Whether you are a hobby writer who flits between projects or a professional who produces novels at a steady pace and loves to engage in marketing, there is space for you at PPWC!

At the end of the weekend, feet cramping and eyelids heavy, I called my sibling on the way home, gushing about my conference experience. “Wow, Marin,” they said. “This is genuinely the happiest I’ve ever heard you. Like, legit.” (Forgive them their youthful slang.) But they were right – the level of enthusiasm PPWC sparked is the exact kind of long-term fuel that keeps creatives moving forward!

The thing is, for years I have crammed my writing into the margins of my life. And I don’t mean writing during lunch breaks and in waiting rooms. I mean: working my day job through my lunch breaks, and only writing once or twice a year, when I had a quiet weekend or a day off and my energy reserves weren’t completely drained.

But thanks to the connections made and lessons learned at PPWC, my creative energy was renewed. I came away from the conference with a list of follow-up emails to send, dozens of pages of craft notes, at least 3 new short story ideas, and – most importantly – hope. 

This didn’t feel like the academic conferences of old, where I left weary and wondering if it was even worth it. This felt like stumbling upon a dragon’s hoard of literary inspiration, and then the dragon offering me the pick of the lot – then telling me where I could find some other hoards, and the names of some well-connected dragons I might want to connect with. 

At last, I reflected, dabbing my eyes in the bathroom stall. I’ve found my people. People who don’t care about the letters behind my name or whether I’m published or not. People who genuinely want to see each other succeed, recognizing that others’ success does not threaten their own. People for whom I will share my very vulnerable story of crying in hotel bathrooms across the country. This kind of belonging matters – for everyone, but perhaps especially for the creativity and longevity of writers. 

PPWC demonstrates what can happen when a conference is built around generosity, accessibility, and genuine community. For writers seeking community, clarity, and growth in their craft, Pikes Peak Writers offers a conference worth experiencing.

If you are even considering attending PPWC for the first time, let this be your sign. It might just change your life. 

Fair warning, though – you might end up crying cliched tears of joy in a bathroom and then telling some strangers on the internet about it. I’ll be in the next stall over, ready to pass you a tissue.

Marin Stratus (they/them) writes queer speculative fiction that blends lyrical prose with wry humor and wit. Their work centers on found family, twin-flame connections, and morally grey characters whose messy, human choices shape the worlds around them.
Off the page, Marin can be found confidently misidentifying the avian wildlife of Colorado’s Front Range and collecting notebooks too beautiful to risk writing in. They share a home with their wife, an emotionally codependent rescue dog, and forty-seven houseplants whose inner lives remain a mystery. Find them at linktr.ee/stratus.