I had a dreamy week last week at a writer's retreat. I'm writing an essay to submit to the organization about it, and that's taxing my word power at the moment so don't expect this to be particularly interesting or well-written. I'll throw up a couple of exercises from the last week in the coming days though, so you can see a bit of what we did. Mucho info, mucho brain-strain. We analyzed Aristotle's Poetics, for crissake. (Pretty good book, btw. Who knew the man could write?) [editor's note: Ok, that was stoopid. Just ignore it.]
At bars I was offered a hundred dollars to flash. Little did they know that I would have done it for Mardi Gras beads. A cowboy flirted with me. He was cute, in a toothpick sort of way. (Be assured, a few people are laughing their asses off at that.) A black man complemented me on my tan-- saying he wished he could get tan like that. And we had quite the ordeal at a Mexican restaraunt, compared appropriately to a Papal Enclave and resulting in Benedict Table the Third. I'm hoping for an abridged version of my friend's story, which was very well recieved at a retreat reading, to be featured on SS@S soon.
I could live that life forever... well, except for missing the kids and the husband and the prospect of getting a dog. Ok, who am I kidding? I drank, ate, smoked, and wrote whenever I wanted. A dog ain't got nothing on that. Am I going next year? Does the accordian player wear a pinky ring? Fuck yeah, I'm going every year.
Anyway, come home I did and with and to --in uncertain order--
1. Sick kid
2. Sick kid
3. Sick husband (definitely the worst of the lot--the wives in my readership will appreciate that.)
4. Inflated ego (too much praise)
5. Inflated thighs (too much beer)
6. Sick husband MIA (it's the Denver Grand Prix, so when he is home it's like I'm not home because car talk always sends me into la-la land. snore.)
7. Onslaught of the Birthday. It's Tuesday, for those of you who didn't mark your calendars at the last mention.
8. A very muddy Beastie
9. Two old, wet copies of stories from eons ago (ok, well, college) rife with encouraging critique from my old prof who wrote for the show Barney Miller. Remember that? No, of course not. You're too damn young.
10. Hilarious bar stories
11. A new writers group with writers I actually like
12. A cold/sore throat/cough
13. A hangover
14. A protracted agent search
15. An increase in hits
Good to know you like my blog better when I don't post.