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Erma's created a monster, albeit, a happy one.

It's Thursday after that weekend in Dayton and I am still walking on air, two feet above the ground. I smile all the time, even when my husband spills coffee on the newly washed floor or when a library patron rants about the slow Internet or it snows in April. I smile because I keep thinking funny things and run to write them down, or not, and then try in vain to conjure that hilarious observation.

I found it interesting, and somewhat threatening, that so many of the attendees were much younger than my just-went-on-Medicare self. (See? I can't even write the number down, let alone say it out loud.) They were so cute and perky and somehow have already been blogging and tweeting their way into readers' hearts among birthing babies, carpooling and all that laundry. And do they have any idea what they're in for with midlife-crisis husbands, teenagers who drive, teenagers who drink, college kids who drink? There's enough material there to last to assisted living - that euphemism for nursing home.

From the minute I rolled my little red suitcase into the lobby of the Marriott, I knew I was in the right place - the Erma place. Chatter and laughter surrounded me, and every look was a smile. I literally bounced up the elevator to my room, unpacked and proudly donned my identifying lanyard that just happened to match my outfit.

It was 5 p.m., and I needed a jolt of Pinot Noir for courage and serenity both. Stepping into the tented cocktail party, I took a deep breath and wandered over to one of the bar tables. The smiling and chatting and sharing and love never stopped from that moment on.

The creative business cards came out, and I bemoaned my boring one with its sole social media connection, my original hotmail address. Yes, I was on Facebook but rarely used it to share my writing - mostly recipes and Throwback Thursday photos. How astute these attendees with six connectivity options, including Youtube.

I wandered into the ballroom with my second glass of $9 wine (thank you, hubby, for not putting a price limit on my happiness) and thus began this remarkable weekend with the stunning Patricia Wynn Brown, emcee extraordinaire. Phil Donahue seemed overwhelmed by the loving attention of the attendees at his impromptu photo-op, some of whom may have been children watching his show with their mothers. I don't think he remembered meeting me in the elevator at the 2002 conference, even though I am still embarrassed by the memory of my dry mouth and a squeaky "hi."

My love, yes, love, for Lisa Scottoline and Gina Barreca goes beyond admiration for their witty deliveries and meaningful advice to us fledgling writers. Growing up in an Italian family, I felt embraced by their ethnic narratives as if they were my own. Unwritten memories flooded back to me, and I knew I would make them part of my stories. When Gina was signing her book for me, she asked why I had a French name if I were Italian.

"Because my mother loved the movies and Yvonne DeCarlo!" And she laughed. I made Gina laugh!!

My goals before the next workshop are pretty lofty, but I soaked in so much information and advice from all the presenters to stoke my fires for quite a while - Anna Lefler and her repetitive editing; Donna Cavanaugh and her astute blogging hints; Dan Zevin and his humor journal; Cathryn Michon and her perseverance.

I can't wait for 2016.

- Yvonne Ransel

Yvonne Ransel is a writer of essays - some humorous, some poignant - who is inspired by life's crazy, everyday events. She was a librarian, then a bar owner, now a librarian again. She survived the '60s and the millenium and the years in between as mother, wife and now grandmother of six. Her goals for writing and publishing between now and 2016 are quite lofty, but "Erma's got my back."