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The writer’s conference was, if not great, then pretty darn good. I took an excellent rewriting course from Earlene Fowler, author of a series of eleven mysteries. She’s not my favorite writer, but I’ve always had an alarming suspicion that I write like her. Something about her prose reminds me of my own awkwardness.

But it turns out that she IS just like me, in other ways, too. She’s confident in front of a group, self-deprecatingly humorous, and kind of a spazz. And she’s mostly left-brained. Pulling the writing out of herself, the first draft, is like pulling candy from a five year old. It’s hard for her to make that switch to right-brained creativity. She prefers to organize things. She was a great secretary (reminded me of how much I like to dispatch, which is like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle). She loves lists.

So rewriting is her strength, and she’s studied how she does it over the years. She gave us LISTS! Of things to do while rewriting! It was a beautiful thing. I went in not expecting to learn very much, and I was overwhelmed with information. And excitment!

Suddenly, finishing the book doesn’t seem so hard and scary. I’ve known from the beginning, when I made the conscious decision not to rewrite as I went along, that this would only mean major revision at the end. Now I’m looking forward to it. Yet another jigsaw puzzle. (Okay. I only like metaphorical jigsaw puzzles – if I had to do an actual one I’d yawn myself to death.)

That class was the thrilling part of the conference. I’ve never been to one before, and I didn’t know what to expect. What I DIDN’T expect were all the sighing, religious women. At least they seemed that way – as the speakers spoke, they nodded, mmmm-hmmm-ing right along with the speaker. Uh-huh. Mm-hum. Yeah. One woman in the back of the room mmm-hmmm-ed herself so hard it came out as a loud squeak and we all swiveled to look at her. That woman was astonishingly irritating, I have to say. She touted the glorious powers of Powerpoint (!) and then went on to just TALK. And talk and talk and talk. This class was led by a stunning teacher, Daniel Houston-Davila, and it was about writing cross-culturally. I had questions. I didn’t have time to get them answered, though, since Old Girl kept on yakkin’.

Walking out of the classroom, she cornered me.
“Why did the teacher keep talking to you? It was like he was directing all his comments at you. Do you know him?”
“No,” I said, “But I talked to him earlier today.”
“You look pretty white to me. Why were you in this class? It was a class for writing cross-culturally.”
Shock at this point.
“I’m a lesbian.” I said. “I had some questions about writing and crossing that divide that I thought the class might address.”
“Oh. I was sexually abused by women when I was young.”

At this point, my eyebrows just stopped working and I had to manually bring them down to their proper positions. This was like me saying, “I have a boyfriend,” and her replying, “I was sexually abused by men when I was young.” Holy crap. What do you say to that? To a stranger who’s just pissed off?

We were approaching my little mother at this point, so I merely tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Good luck to you, then.” She smiled sweetly and traipsed off.

Erg.

Speaking of my little mama, I have to say this:

At the end of one of the classes, I was waiting for her to join me at the cafeteria. We had attended separate classes, and I was sure when I saw her teacher arrive at the cafeteria that she would soon follow.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Fifteen minutes later, I was frantic. Did she get lost? Was she ill? How would staff find me? That’s when I saw strolling toward me, Daniel Houston-Davila in tow (the one person I hoped to button-hole and meet at the conference). Not only was she clever enough to meet him, but she had spent the last fifteen minutes passing out her cards (she’s a book reviewer for a local paper) to new authors. She couldn’t get away from them!

My mother. The networker. It was awesome.

Only a few minutes here at the folks’ computer, so I’ll be brief. Actually, I’m lying. We ain’t going out to dinner for another hour, but this computer is UNBEARABLE, so I can only manage to use it for a few minutes at a time. It has a tiny screen and a loud whine, and the chair makes my back ache. And I grew two wrinkles while I waited for it to dial-up connect. Actually, I cast off the hoodie part of LoTech, which I’m going to go sew up as soon as I finish up here.

AND – I felted two bags! Suki (finally! Yay!) and ole #88 Noro Booga J. They’re looking good…. But I’m surrounded by finishing, aren’t I? Bleah. Oh, and thanks to all who helped with my I-cord distress. They were all great suggestions, but it was Loose Ends Melissa who gave me the trick that worked for my style – tug the cord each time. Miracle of miracles, I had attractive I-cord! Not that it mattered, once it was all felty, but it felt good. (get it?)

Oooh – saw Dirty Pretty Things this afternoon – great movie. Unexpectedly, harshly beautiful. And I caved and bought those Gap cords. And I had my clam chowder in Pismo. A good day, I think.

ps – can’t italicize on this computer, or add html – so movie is here: www.miramax.com/dirty_pretty_things/

I’m an okay knitter. I’m no Wendy, for gosh’s sake, but no one is (that’s why we worship her). But I’m all right. I can cable. I can do color work. I can do fancy cast-ons and bind-offs.

SO WHY THE HELL CAN’T I MAKE A DECENT I-CORD? They always suck. I know, this one’ll be felted, so I don’t care. But what’s my freaking problem? I alternate between pulling the first stitch taut and leaving it easy. No dice. Still freaky weird loops appear wherever they feel like it, taunting me.

Look:

Bah.

Here’s the Booga J bag, pre-felt: (I love it, you darlings: Rob and Greta!)

Now. Off to bed for a quick nap, then a drive down the coast with the top down (which sounds lovely, but will be more like a buggy race through garlic fields with dry heat in the triple digits), and to the conference tonight.

Enjoy your weekends, folks. Knit a lot. Love a lot, too. Uh huh.

This morning I left a copy of Native Speaker, by Chang Rae Lee, out on the sidewalk a house down from mine. I wrote a note and stuck it inside, telling the recipient, “Enjoy and Peace.” It made me happy to free a book so close to my home (although I talked to Mom, and she had an AMAZING idea – she was going to release a book in the local hospital waiting room – two years ago today while I waited for her to come out of recovery, I would have appreciated that. My mother is the coolest).

I have to admit, though, that I sat looking out my window after I put it on the sidewalk. I wanted a glimpse of the person who picked it up, even though I knew that probably wasn’t a good idea. I sat and sat and sat; no one walked by. This is strange, as my neighborhood is always full of people walking and riding bikes, and it was seven in the morning. Prime time in my hood.

Instead, I saw a green car pull up in front, and a brown-haired girl sat inside for a few minutes pulling kleenex from a box on her back seat. She sat for another minute, then got out her cell phone and dialed. A minute later, Doug from upstairs came running down to meet her. She got out of the car, came around to its front, looked up at him, and wrapped her arms around him. They stood like that, without saying anything for at least a minute. Maybe two. She gave him a tissue, he got in, and they drove away. Doug moved here from New York a year ago. I noticed he was wearing a NYFD tee shirt.

I decided then I didn’t need to know who picked up my silly book, and that I had already seen the day being honored. I went to bed.

**
This is NOT what I meant to write. Not even sure where that came from. What I meant to write is about how blocked I feel as a writer lately, but I don’t feel like talking about that now. I’m going to the writers’ conference with the little mama this weekend, and I’m going to use that to spur me onwards. AND, I get to have donuts at the beach and clam chowder in Pismo. I’m going to finish my booga noro bag (ooooh! Mom has hot water in her machine! I’ll felt!) It’ll be a good weekend.

I revamped my list of sites to the left – I’m leaving only a link to some of my favorite links, and one to Bethany’s page (she’s in Cody, Wyoming!). I have too many sites (and people) that I love and adore, and there are more everyday. Sometimes I just groan when I find more writing that I enjoy. I don’t NEED this many pages to hit. But I do. We do. It’s a grown-up version of pen-pals, this time with pictures! And knitting!

Today’s a day to love. Sending you all of mine. Enjoy each other.

This is a wonderful idea, cribbed from Go Fish, who cribbed it elsewhere.

On Sept. 11th, join a “poetical happening” and free a book!

Because a book is a symbol of freedom, sharing and tolerance…

On Sept. 11th, 2003, take a book which is important for you, a book that has changed your vision on the world, write in it a dedication, a few words, or a drawing, and free it!

Leave it on a roadside bench, a bus stop or in a cafe making it available for any unknown reader. In this way, Sept. 11th will be not only an anniversary of tragedy. Together, let us affect this global sorrow with creative and generous action.

A general mobilization from Bruxelles, Paris, Florence, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, New York, Seattle, Whidbey Island and more. Almost all over the world, readers, artists, writers, poets, and publishers of vision and heart will free books that are important for them on Thursday, Sept. 11th, 2003.

Get involved and tell your friends. Readers, authors, publishers – free a book, because a book is a symbol of freedom, sharing and tolerance.

It’s just Bookcrossing, but without the ID numbers.

I dread the coming of September 11th, in part because I don’t know what I feel. Sad, yes. Of course. But I have more memories of the day than that. My mother went into hospital at noon that day and had surgery for colon cancer. I spent the afternoon in San Luis Obispo, walking around gift shops where stunned clerks listened to radios and watched TVs and seemed personally affronted that I wanted to buy my mother CDs and sweatshirts and robes and flowers. I went to give blood for my mother and found that the donation line was over six hours long. I thought about how 9/11 had always been Dispatcher Appreciation Day. Not that anyone knew it, but I thought, damn. Here goes our holiday. And behind that, always, the solid wall of grief.

When Mom woke up, we watched the news. We turned it off at night, briefly, so I could read Jan Karon’s Mitford books to her. Those, about the idyllic love story of a small town clergyman, were the opposite of the fear being broadcast. I never wanted the hospital TV to be switched back on. I only felt like it would hurt my mother. It was sure as hell hurting me and I wasn’t recovering from being split open. Well, not literally. But we had to watch, didn’t we?

I’m not diminishing the day, and its horrific losses. I couldn’t. It took me a long time to even start getting over it. But listen: I’m going to a writing conference with Mom this weekend. With my mother!

That’s something worth celebrating.

So in honor of the day, and in honor of the best reader I know – I’ll be freeing a couple of books. Wanna join me?

P.S. – Thanks for all the ant tips. They actually got scared by the collective wisdom I was garnering and fled before I had to try ANY of them. At the first rain they’ll be back, though. But what they don’t know is: Now I’m armed! You TRY it! I’m almost looking forward to it. Wait…. Nah.

P.P.S – Bethany’s on the move again!

You’ll notice that I actually named no names when I posted that picture of the melted keyboard. I happened to be NEARBY when it was boiled. I take great comfort in the fact that I didn’t do the actual scalding of said keys. Of course, I’ll admit that in the back of my head, I was thinking, “that’s terrific! What a good idea! I’m going to do that when I get home!” And when they came out all twizzlered like that, I was the first to make fun (and the first to grab the camera). But I admit, I did think it was pretty smart there fer a minute. Hee.

Here are the toe-up socks I finally finished.

I used the marvelous Wendy’s pattern, and I love the short-row shaping of it, but I think I’m going to modify it a little. I CAN’T USE SIZE ZERO (US) NEEDLES EVER AGAIN. I kept accidentally using them to pick my teeth. Or shishkebob. Hey! How’d that piece of cubed beef get on the end of my needle? I was fearful for my eyes, they were so small and sharp (the needles, not my eyes). I think next time I’ll take some of the stitches out and use perhaps a size two. Maybe even three. It just took toooooo long, even though I do love the weft of them.

Last night I dreamed I couldn’t find a friend after an evening of exquisitely unexpected and entirely unavoidable closeness – we were at an amusement park with differently themed rooms. I left clues, my jacket on a post, and saw his clues, his hat on a fake tree, but we were both too busy and too smart to look in the right places. That was the worst part – the knowing he was somewhere, just around the corner…..

Aargh.

I do love the FEEL of life, though, don’t you? The quiet joy of any expressed emotion. It makes it all worth it.

Avoid the skewer bamboo needles. I’m convinced they’re more dangerous than we know. And don’t boil your keyboard.