Is Sandra coming out this weekend, Deb?

Next weekend - I'm going down to San Diego, we will hang out all day and all of the night Saturday at the hotel. Sunday, I get to spend the entire day with Cass - my flight back isn't until eight.

I'm soooooooooo looking forward to this. Dying to meet Sandra, dying to see Cass. Woot!

And bringing prosecco for both.

Lyssa Keusch was the first person I ever pitched to, back at the 2003 Emerald City Writers Conference. My first-time jitters were so bad I don't remember a lot of details, but I do recall that she asked cogent questions about everyone's pitches (this was a group session with 5-6 people), and had people send partials as long as they were at all in line with what her house published.

More green, tangentially related to my previous, I'm sure.

I am too old to be this green. People that love me try to put a spin on it, talk about my fresh perspective or the fact that I’ve not been living my life in a way that would make Fiona Apple(at least in her videos) look like a choir teacher. They say they admire my clear-eyed rut, but their smiles about their bad old days make them liars. Nobody ever wrote songs about a neat credit report, nobody sighed in the dark about vitamins. I know. I looked it up. I admit it’s a hard position to defend, “Give me more stupidity, mess, and mistakes.” But it ain’t easy, after all. Being. Green.

I admit it’s a hard position to defend, “Give me more stupidity, mess, and mistakes.” But it ain’t easy, after all. Being. Green.

Nodding furiously. Because my Bad Old Days have been eating my head for the past thirty years, and if anyone tried to take one moment of them away from me, I'd rip their head off and spit down their neck.

So no, not easy.

When I was going through a really rough time in college, complete with the world's worst boyfriend, my mother confided in a friend that she wished she could just take away all my pain. The friend said something like, "Don't do that. You wouldn't steal her joy."

The friend said something like, "Don't do that. You wouldn't steal her joy."

That's it precisely.

high-fives self

pours prosecco, adds white peach pulp, stirs

I finished While My Guitar Gently Weeps!

Huzzah!!!

Woohoo, Deb!

ION, a statement just went out from what AFAICT is the entire RWA board except its current president apologizing and deploring what happened with the awards ceremony. Incidentally, the president also appointed herself the board liaison to the awards ceremony committee--and repeatedly assured the board that everything was going according to plan in accordance with the innocuous theme they'd been given.

(The president issued a statement, too, of the "mistakes were made" variety.)