My Halloween expectations greatly exceeded the reality of the situation. No one came to trick or treat, which leaves me to wonder, what happened to ALL that candy at the front desk. Every employee became suspect if I smelled chocolate on their breath. Hmmph. They could have at least left me something.
                 
Last night I awaited the arrival of the Headless Horseman on the green in front of the hotel. A small crowd had gathered dressed appropriately in scary garb. I kept looking for someone to come galloping down the street with their cape billowing behind them in the forty mile an hour wind we were experiencing at the time. Instead, some young maiden led the horse in by the reins making the Headless Horseman look like he was on a pony ride. The horse was bored silly. The Headless Horseman looked silly. And the whole affair was nothing more than a disappointing photo op.
                 
Can you believe two people on the block already have a lit Christmas tree in their living rooms? Does anyone remember when Christmas used to be a religious Holiday? Remember when folks used to wait until Christmas Eve to put up a tree? Next thing you know someone’s gonna have a computerized baby Jesus singing rap while the star of Bethlehem blinks on and off over the manger. Well, at least they can’t screw up Thanksgiving. Or, can they?
                 
They have blocked off the convenient entrance to our parking deck in order to put in another building. What a pain in the arsmidoo. Now we have to exit on the opposite end of the hotel. It’s not like we’re exactly easy to find in the first place. Maybe it’s a good thing. If you give guests too many choices they get more confused. 
                 
It looks like I’m going to have to wring out the last drops of daylight this week since we’re turning the clocks back early Sunday morning. I do NOT like it when it gets dark at 5 p.m. If I’m not already out doing something, fat chance getting me to go back out at night. My pj’s start calling me to come get them by 7:30. I know I’m not alone in this. I don’t understand why we still observe this practice of changing the clocks when we’re no longer agrarian. But, then nobody asked me.

It's not even Halloween yet, and already it’s cold enough to snow. I guess Mother Nature figured if we can jump the gun with Christmas decorations in September, she can do it too. Now that it starts to get dark at 6:15 p.m. add a cold and rainy day on top of that, and it’s downright nasty. This is definitely not a mood picker-upper. 
                 
The lobby desk is the only place you’ll find a hint of Halloween in the hotel. Confidante is surrounded by an assortment of pastel-colored fedoras, colorful masks and some kind of plastic glasses with horizontal slats, all sitting on the desk. I’m supposed to remember who wore these, but I don’t. So, sue me. They even have Halloween candy to give out. Right. You and I both know those candy bars are gonna head right onto the hips of the front desk girls, not in some little trick or treater’s bag, especially since they can’t even find their way into the lobby. I swiped one of the masks. It’s my favorite color: purple. I may just wear it to spite Confidante after his annoying insult after I put it on.
                 
What is it about men and car parts? I mean, when a woman does her own research on how something is supposed to work, and then asks for advice on what would be the best and least expensive option to getting it fixed, why incite a riot because she just didn’t go with the first option mentioned? Getting more options is all part of the research. Then we can make an informed decision. See, this is why men should stick to cars and the yard, and let us handle everything else. If you’re not going to accept the way we solve problems, then don’t criticize. So, there.
                 
You know I’ve been here too long when former employees come back and I’m still here. Sorry. I just finished my tour of duty with the book that required me to be here. Frankly, I’m looking forward to cooking for myself again before the chef at WFG does me in with his penchant for raw onions in every salad bar item, and for the use of hot chilis or cayenne pepper in his main entrees. We could use a little variety folks.
                 
What do Harry Houdini, Mohammar Ghadafi, and one of the two computers on the front desk have in common? They all died from a blow to their guts. In my opinion, the computer just got tired. They never give it a rest. Confidante saw it coming first. He thinks it’s a virus. I think it was suicide.
                 
Is that sleet I hear on the window? It better not be. Don’t make me get up tomorrow and find out I missed fall this year. I still have the colorful fall foliage to take in yet. There’s plenty of time for winter to come, so keep your distance Jack.

My life seems to get stranger and stranger. What I mean is, I keep attracting stuff like weird energy and people who’ve already shown up in my writing. Maybe it’s because people find me easy to talk to. They tell me things they normally wouldn’t broadcast to just anybody. I guess I should take that as a compliment, but I swear some of the stuff I’m
privy to is pretty unbelievable. The frustrating thing is that the 411 guest can’t even share the information. Oh, well I guess I’ll just have to stick with what I can.
                 
The hotel was booked solid both Friday and Saturday nights. We haven’t had a weekend this noisy in a long time. First, there was the boys’ hockey team that flooded the lobby with the antics of twenty 10 year-old boys hyped up on sugar. Loud doesn’t do what happened justice. They pounced on every square inch of the lobby like flies on a dropped ice cream cone. They had pillow fights. They dueled with the pool cue sticks. They took over the one remaining computer and outdid each other with screaming. They ran circles around the desk chasing each other. I thought Confidante’s head was going to rotate off. My patience quickly evaporated, especially when they glommed all over the pool table with
drinks in hand. Now you know we just had that re-felted. Where were the adults? Oh, come on. You know they were all at the bar. The kids were supposed to go to bed at ten, but the adults weren’t paying any attention. At something to eleven, Confidante couldn’t take it anymore. Neither could I. I left him with the carnage and went to bed myself. Nobody has to tell me when to go.
                 
There were twenty or so sixteen year-old girls all dressed up in black that twice glided through the lobby in sync and single-file like a caterpillar chorus line. We had a dog fight here and there. And, if one more person asked for ice, I was gonna scream. The piéce de resistance was the restaurant-bar below us that blared their music so loud no one could get any sleep until after they closed at 2 a.m. 
                 
Sunday I needed to recharge my batteries in the good old outdoors. I spent a few hours walking in the woods and sitting by a lake. The smell of pine trees was intoxicating. The only noise came from the ducks, and since I was visiting their home, there wasn’t much I could say. Nor, did I want to. I just enjoyed the quiet and the sunshine. I figured I was due.

Does dirty laundry really weigh more than clean? I have recently asked myself this very question. Once a week, I drag all my clothes to the laundry room. This necessitates carrying a large duffel bag of dirty clothes, blouse and skirt hangers, a canvas sack holding my detergent, fabric softener and Shout, and perhaps my entertainment bag, an assortment of reading material, my cell phone, glasses and a bottle of water. The trip to the laundry requires one long walk down the hall to the elevators, and another very long walk to the laundry. The load is heavy and I always think I’m never going to make it. I start alternating between heavy breathing and holding my breath half way down the hall. By the time I get there, my arms are ready to fall off. I can barely haul the duffle bag up and onto the table. So, why then on the trip back, do the same clothes, now clean and on hangers, feel lighter? It’s not like they were THAT dirty or anything. I would like a scientific explanation of this phenomenon.
                 
I tell you, riding on four brand new tires and having my brakes adjusted have given me a whole new lease on life. What a difference. You don’t realize how bad things used to be until you go to brake and you almost go through the windshield. Not only that, but the car no longer pulls to the right. Oh, happy day.
                 
Earlier, I went downstairs to heat my dinner in the microwave and came up on another business networking function. Forty people all talking simultaneously and sounding like the Tower of Babel. Been there, done that, even have the tee shirt. Me in another life. No thanks.
                 
Last night it had the nerve to rain just as I was getting ready to go get dinner. I wasn’t hungry enough to walk in the rain, so in desperation I ordered wings in a spicy barbeque sauce from the bar. Normally, this would go against my healthy diet. However, when weighed against the other option: getting soaked and chilled to the bone in the process of having to walk down the street, I opted for raising a few eyebrows in the kitchen when I ordered them. They were good too.
                 
I talked to my 95 year old mother today. Well, I tried to anyway. We’ve had the same conversation every time I’ve called for the past few years. She never knows what day it is, nor what time. You’ve just told her fifteen times. I asked her why she doesn’t use the old marking off the days on the calendar routine she used to have. She says every day is the same; why bother. 
                 
Right about this time, Confidante should be taking a mid-term exam. Or, so he says. Some people will use any excuse to avoid getting their clock cleaned at pool. Jeesh.

Has this been a boring week, or what? Once I got done with the requested materials for the agent, I sort of got lost. I mean, I felt lost. I realized once I stopped going at a fast clip for seven days a week, once it was temporarily over, I sort of went flat. Now what? I tried
doing research for the next book in the series and ran into information constipation. Maybe I’m supposed to take a breather. If I am, I need to get out of here to do that. I suddenly realized I’ve been working, sleeping and eating in the same small room for over a year. See, the bad thing about being a workaholic is that your friends move on without you. They’re all off enjoying beautiful Sunday afternoons while you’re just looking up from whatever you’ve kept yourself occupied with, and wondering where everyone else has gone. 
                 
Doesn’t it just figure, that as soon as we got the pool table recovered, that all my pool buddies decided to move on? Good grief. I don’t even look anymore when little kids are playing on it. My reputation is finished. Some hussler I am. I’m not even sure I could hit a ball anymore. Not only that, but I haven’t even had the urge to play. Something must be the matter with me. It’s all Confidante’s fault. If he hadn’t gone to days, I’d still be trying to beat the socks off him.
                 
There’s no point in even hanging out in the lobby at night anymore. People seem to be in a trance. Nothing’s breaking down. No one’s started a fire lately making popcorn in the microwave. It’ boring. I tell you, the place has gone to the dogs. Literally. They’ve taken over the hotel. There’s one bulldog here that looks just like its owner. I guess I should say, its owner looks like her dog.
                 
I realized what I HAVE been doing is taking care of all the stuff I’ve let slide while I was so engrossed in getting the final draft of the manuscript done in time for the conference. You know, getting the car serviced, hunting for tires, flu shots, etc. Ordinary, but necessary stuff like that. I may have to put off a European excursion for awhile, although that’s what I’d really like to being doing. I’ve got a book waiting for me to write in Ireland, and a few
others here and there. They’ll have to be on hold for a little longer.
                 
I didn’t want y’all to think I’d fallen off the face of the earth this week. I just had to channel my steam elsewhere for awhile. I’d be remiss if I didn’t channel some steam towards kudos for author and fellow member of James River Writers, David L. Robbins whose screenplay for the film The Rock in the Sun, in conjunction with director Lucas Krost and producer Bennett Fidlow, won the Virginia Film Office screen writing award. 

I awoke to an overcast day. This prompted me to just lay there and enjoy not getting up. Sometimes, it’s good to shake up the old routine. I don’t usually do well in the morning. It comes too early. I’m lying there thinking about everybody else who is already up and having coffee when the phone rings. This forces me to get out of bed, and I’m not happy. Who had the nerve to call me at 8 a.m. unless the hotel was on fire?  Since I didn’t hear any alarms going off, this better be good. I was greeted with, “This isn’t a social call; it’s time to get out of bed and smell the coffee. We need the power strip from your room for the conference room and I’m sending someone up to get it.”  “Ahhhhh,” I said. There was laughter on the other end. “I guess you’re not dressed. Better put something on, he’s on
his way up.”  Jeez. I jerked it out of the wall, cracked the door and handed it over.
                 
This was probably divine providence telling me to eat breakfast and go to the gym. Only, the toaster wouldn’t work. This caused a major delay in getting back to my room. The bed was still looking good when I got there. In spite of the temptation, I grabbed a novel I was reading, and ate breakfast. By the time I got to the gym, I was less than enthused. I thought about a title for an exercise article I wanted to write entitled, “Fluff in Front.” That was motivation enough for me. By the time I got back upstairs I had another request
waiting for me. Maintenance needed to get in to install a new light fixture in the bathroom. Oh, for crying out loud. I’d already made them wait to do my room last after I saw the quality of light the new fixtures put out. The three foot long tubular fixture has a plastic lens on top and bottom that supplies a very bright white light. Kind of makes your face look like you’re on High Def TV. I can tell putting makeup on is going to be a real adventure from now on. I made him wait until after I showered and dressed. By then, he had taken off to do another room. Now I had housekeeping trying to get in my room. I asked them to wait until I tracked down maintenance. An hour later, the installation had begun. I’m trying to write in the midst of this mayhem. One leaves and the other one shows up. I swear, sometimes it’s like my room has a revolving door. It’s a wonder I can get any work done. But, I do.

Just when I think things can’t get any better than previous James River Writer’s Conferences, they outdo themselves. It was phenomenal. I love being around my tribe. The combined creative energy at the conference is always palpable. As usual, having to choose between two or more courses you really, really, want to attend, but can only
have your body in one place at a time is always difficult. Each hour, four different sessions go on simultaneously all day. The two days are intense for me, and by the end of Saturday I am a good kind of wasted.
                 
I’d been determined to get a good night sleep the Thursday night before the conference, but that’s sometimes easier said than done when you live in a hotel with thin walls. I did manage to get to sleep by 9:30 p.m., but was rudely awakened at 1 a.m. by someone singing in the loudspeaker room next to me. Apparently, the entire floor had erupted
in song during the night because at 7:15 the next morning I received a phone call from the front desk asking me if I was also hearing music. They’d been getting complaints from my floor all night. Thank God, I was beginning to worry I was channeling outer space. Sometimes I feel and hear vibrations in the middle of the night. I sleep alone. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not. Maybe I’m picking up tectonic plate shuffling in advance of the next earthquake. 
                 
Due to a last minute wardrobe change I was running five minutes behind schedule on Friday morning. I finally got downstairs and discovered my car wasn’t there. I thought Confidante was playing a joke. No joke, just a communication problem, but the fact remained I still had to find a ride to the Library of Virginia, and fast. I know enough about life that there are no coincidences, so when the night shift person was still there an hour after her shift, I knew it was Divine intervention. She drove me to the conference. I arrived on time, and after the adrenaline subsided I started to laugh at the drama. As is true for many libraries, homeless people like to hang out there, so the sight of me laughing to myself in the middle of the lobby seemed to fit right in, and no one came over to ask me to leave.
                 
All morning I kept going over my pitch to the agent. For some reason, about an hour before my scheduled appointment with the agent, I decided to change my pitch. This is usually an act of creative suicide, likened only to changing your answers on the SAT. This time however, I was glad I did, because I improved it. And, I give credit for the inspiration to do so, to whoever has been serving as my muse all these years. The agent liked it too because she asked me to send her the first 30 pages of the manuscript; music to my
ears.  
                 
Our first day ended on a sour note as one of the guest agents gave a talk on the current sad state of affairs of the publishing industry. She inferred that getting published is almost impossible. Publishing houses don’t want to give advances, and what small amounts they do give gets divvied up into four or five payments over two years. After spending maybe years writing a book, an author may not break even in the end. Self publishing may get you published, but you have to pay for it. In either case, you’re responsible for your own marketing. If your sales are not there they burn your books. Blah, blah, blah. The average writer wonders what in the world they’re wasting their time on after hearing this. The huge advances are being given to the celebrities who aren’t
even writers, but have name recognition. No wonder the publishing houses are in trouble.

Well, pooh. I am of the belief that you persevere and write because you love it, and because you can’t see yourself doing anything else that could possibly give you as much pleasure. And, if you put in the time and effort to hone your craft, you can and eventually will see your work out there.  This is why I write. I have to write. I’ve had several other careers and jobs, but writing is my oxygen. On the last day of the conference our Chairman reminded us that there are writers who make a very nice living at writing, and who once papered their walls with rejection letters. It’s part of the territory. There are much easier, more profitable ways to make a living, so if you don’t have thick skin and a
sense of perseverance you won’t make it. I plan on making it. 

Thanks to all the agents, published writers and journalists who made the conference such a success. I’m wondering if one of those I met this weekend is reading this blog.


                 
                 

Tomorrow is the day I’ve worked all year for: my pitch to the agent. I’ve gone over the pitch so many times I now run the risk of forgetting everything. My mind will do that; go blank, so I will let it rest. Nothing else is gonna sell it like my enthusiasm for it anyway. I’ve spent the day trying to relax and not think about anything stressful. I’m psyched.
Bring it on.
                 
Yesterday I spent tackling stuff that I’ve procrastinated about doing because I had other more pressing priorities, like finishing the manuscript and then the pitch. I found the response to my high school reunion that required me filling out a form that also wanted to know what I’ve done with my life. I wasn’t in the mood for writing a memoir at the time, so I put it aside. Now I discover that since I’m not going to the reunion I didn’t have to write anything. So, I could have sent it months ago. My bad.
                 
This is also the time of year when my sap rises, so to speak. There’s something invigorating about the crispness in the air that makes me want to run off to a B&B in the mountains or an after season beach cottage. I’m seeing a fireplace and someone special to snuggle with, and then… Then, I’m rudely awakened by one of the reasons I’m still single: a loud, high pitched yawn, not quite intended for the frequencies of this planet; or the sound of a trumpet blowing nose on the other side of the wall. Dear ladies, how did I inherit your man who cannot wake up in the morning to the five minute alarm sounding right next to his ear that has no trouble waking me? Why does he let it go on for five
minutes, then hit the snooze alarm again so he can reap five more? You have trained him badly. Why did you have to send him to me? Please get his nose fixed. He not only snores, but he blows it so loud my windows rattle. His first night here I heard him talking to you on the speaker phone until 1:30 a.m. No wonder he couldn’t get up the next morning. I got up. I had to because even though he slept through his alarm, it worked on me. Well, tonight I need to get to bed really early because I have to get up before dawn. If he keeps me awake again, it’s going to get ugly.
                 
Forget I ever said anything about the geese being gone. I was almost run over by them flying in formation while getting ready to land at their resting grounds. Their euphonious racket scared the beejeesus out of me as they came up behind me unexpectedly. They must have been out searching for food. I noticed a couple of them carrying bags from Whole Foods.
                 
Because I’ll be gone for the next few days at my writers’ conference, I won’t be blogging. I’ll catch up with you in a few days. Til then, stay happy.

Forty nine degrees? Are you kidding me? Today I got yelled at for having the heat on in my room. This is from the same employee who wanted to know why the room was so cold. What’s gonna happen when it gets warm again and the A/C isn’t on, they questioned? I felt like saying, “It’s October the third, the leaves are beginning to turn, and the day time
temperature struggles to hit 70 degrees on a sunny day, and you’re expecting hot
weather again? Get outta my room. Touch the thermostat and see what happens.”
                 
Who decided to put THE GOOD WIFE on Sunday evenings at nine o’clock when it follows a football game that’s more than likely going into over-time each week? Whose great idea was that, anyway? I came upstairs thinking it wasn’t on yet, and left for twenty minutes. By the time I got back, changed and got into bed, it was half over. Which programming numbskull is responsible for reducing one of the top-rated shows on TV into an afterthought? HMMM?
                 
It was a good thing I had fortified myself with a fig and arugula pizza for supper before I had to face that disappointment. Is that a fantastic combination of flavors, or what? I mean the sweetness of the fig in contrast to the bitterness of the arugula. Sheer genius is what it is. Maybe they should do the programming for CBS.
                 
I don’t know how Confidante and I have managed to avoid killing each other so far. Trying to win an argument with him is like trying to walk up the inside wall of a concrete drainage pipe. You just keep going around and around over your own head getting nowhere. He’s impossible. I’m stubborn. I’ve tried to explain away our differences in logic by the fact that he’s extroverted and I’m introverted. I have a completely different acetylcholine pathway in my brain than he does. I process information differently. He cannot understand how I manage to take seemingly diverse relationships between things and synthesize them into a statement when he can’t follow my train of thought. Seemingly, because to me they make perfect sense. Is that lame or what? Seems like a
personal problem to me. He assumes he finally wears me down into agreeing with him too. Little does he know I’m laughing at the futility of his trying to turn a turnip into a carrot when I like ‘em both.
                 
What he is good at is throwing succinct questions at me to get me prepared for the grilling from the agent I’m supposed to meet on Friday. He missed his calling. He should have gone into trial law. I’m grateful he cares enough to make sure I go in with confidence and enthusiasm, and I will. Of course, I had to promise him a role in the movie version of my book when it comes out. He’d be great playing the role of Sam Furst. 


                 

Well, I think I finally have the pitch down for my manuscript. Five days to go and counting until I meet the agent. It’s sort of like final exams. The course is over and you’re just looking forward to beginning the next one right after finals. At least, that’s the way I used to do it; go from one semester right into the next. It has prepared me to be able to
do what I do now, by finishing one book, and going right into the next.
                 
I’ve been determined to avoid the germs floating about the hotel. I’m not taking any chances on being sick for the James River Writers Conference this Friday and Saturday. Last night I wasn’t expecting it to be as cold and windy as it was, so I wasn’t dressed properly when I went out. I froze. By the time I came home all I wanted to do was get into bed under the covers. I asked the front desk to turn the heat on in my room, and I was out like a light by 9:30. Usually, this would not be a good sign, but apparently I needed the sleep because when I got up this morning, I didn’t have a cold. What I did have was a
vague memory of a screaming argument two people had outside my door at 2:10 a.m.  Some woman was yelling over and over that she’d had to walk home. Then she started sobbing. I remember wondering if someone was trying to sober her up by making her walk. Apparently, she didn’t walk far enough. I wish she’d kept on walking; right past this hotel.
                 
Friday night fourteen teenagers celebrated one of their friends birthdays here at the hotel. I was pleasantly surprised how quiet and polite they were. The girl’s parents chaperoned and no one got out of line or wound up in the fountain. I complimented the parents and the kids on their behavior. Maybe we can get these two parents to chaperone some of the soccer teams we have here. Or, maybe get their kids to chaperone the soccer parents.
                 
The newly felted pool table looked great for the first few hours of its pristine existence. Then, white spots began sprouting all over the top. I’m guessing it’s not milk this time, but the tip of the cue sticks leaving chalk marks. Little kids aren’t supposed to be playing on it, but you know how that goes. 
                 
I swear those are snow clouds outside my window. First Christmas decorations in September, now it’s cold and dreary. Did I miss a month somewhere? I haven’t seen the geese that live here lately, either. What was Peeping Tom’s girlfriend’s name again? Oh yeah, Lucy Goosey. I wonder whatever happened to her after she and Tom parted company. Gosh that was way before the hurricane. Oh, well. I hope Lucy fared out better than poor Tom did.