Climbing into Bed

It doesn't take much to entertain me, so I was giddy and giggly at this
it's my bed at the hotel I'm staying at in Milwaukee. It has stairs.

The hotel is lovely. The bed is gigantic - the mattress hits at my waist and I'm 5'5", meaning either the stairs or a running start are indeed necessary to make it up there. I find this endlessly hilarious for some reason.

So I've made it back to the central time zone after a brilliant evening in San Francisco, where I visited Union Square.
And had gorgeous weather.

Then it was on to Denver. Where I had a blast, but not enough time to take pictures. Except of this watchful fellow in the Denver airport, which struck me as quite Nightshade appropriate.

Now I've returned to my home territory. Even though I'm from Wisconsin this is my first visit to Milwaukee. I have already learned that the world's largest bell resides here. Apparently it is larger than Big Ben. Go Sconnies! We have a big bell.

Yes I've been traveling for four days...I may or may not be a bit looped at this point.

In the Before (Recession) Time, the Long, Long Ago

First: Writers' conferences rock my world. At least this one.

I've already met amazing people - agents, editors, authors and those aspiring to author-dom alike. (My deepest thanks to any shiny, new SF writers friends who are checking out my blog!)

But I'm not here for a conference blow-by-blow, with one exception. My favorite moment thus far was when, with a sweep of his hand, Donald Maass cried, "I am a story god!"

I'm not sure what to be shocked by: his self-proclaimed divinity or my instant conversion to his religion.

My other source of bemusement this weekend derives from the Mark Hopkins amenities menu. This oh-so-lovely hotel evokes an era flush with cash unknown to our current dire economy. In the moments (hours) when I'm too nervous (exhausted) to practice my pitches yet another time, I enjoy pretending I am a business don of a bygone era (the 90s) who can make use of the array of services offered.

Oh......If I were a rich man, Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum I'd
1) Order the $62 breakfast
2)The $162.00 Executive Briefcase that bursts with truffles, chocolates, nuts, fruit and not one but two bottles of water
3)The $400 Champagne and Caviar (or if I want to be frugal, just the $105.00 Champagne and Strawberries, please)
4)The $450.00 Wine and Spirits Package with enough alcohol to fill my bathtub (and it's a nice bathtub, I've been luxuriating in bubbles every night. And that's where I'll be after I post this blog)

I apologize to any readers who take the finer things in life as a matter of course. I may be a dreamer, but I retain enough Midwestern/Scandinavian sense to make my father proud.

Not that I'd turn down that Executive Briefcase, should anyone be inclined to send one to my room.

The View is Much Better Up Here

After the great angst that was my last post, I am abashed to admit that I've arrived in San Francisco......and all appears fabulous. The conference has yet to begin, but simply the fact that the venue is the Mark Hopkins Intercontinental renders the experience already delectable. It didn't hurt that my flight was uneventful, on time, and turbulence free. I also met a very kind gentleman who gave me an overview of his Amazon Kindle (it looks really cool, I want one!), which is making waves in the book business, and was even so gracious as to encourage me to keep writing because his teenage daughter would probably love my novel about werewolves. Since she is my target audience, I found such words very inspiring and I hope someday she is one of my first and most enthusiastic fans. Thanks again, airplane neighbor!

From my new perch on Nob Hill, Wonderland appears much less daunting. So I'll frolic on the other side of the looking glass with steps full of optimism. If I'm lucky enough I'll find a Cheshire Cat to guide my steps. But I won't try out any "drink me" flasks or "eat me" snacks I happen upon while I'm visiting - it is still Wonderland after all.

Teeter-Totter: A Note from the Dark Side

The edge. I end up here more often than I'd like to admit. When I find myself teetering at the brink, it derives from my proclivity for over-commitment (in labor and emotion). Right now I'm staring down the barrel of the semester and grinding my teeth into paste.

But the spines of anxiety needling my skin this week are also born of a looming, much-anticipated event: my first writer's conference.

Late Thursday night I'll arrive in San Francisco to rub elbows with a mass of editors, agents, and authors (published and aspiring like myself). For me, this step has moon-landing significance. No longer will I be staring at the shiny mirror of the writer's world and wanting my reflection to belong among the crowd of authors who I admire. The conference means I'm through the looking glass. Once I cross to the other side, I half expect to find Alice waiting for me with a smile and a knife to bury in my belly.

So at the moment I'm tottering, half-drunk with doubt, and wondering whether the bottom of the chasm might not be so bad.