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.

I’m sure glad I’m a going with the flow kind of person. Sometimes it’s just not worth getting your knickers bunched up in a wad over unexpected circumstances. Like collecting all your laundry only to discover you don’t have fabric softener. So, you put it off for the next day until after you’ve been able to buy some. But, that requires a fall-back
wardrobe the following morning in order to get you your coffee in the lobby. What I’m saying is, I had to wear the only clean pair I had of workout pants down to breakfast. These were a heavy weight, black cotton pair that had cooked in the dryer. I really didn’t think they looked THAT bad. Okay, I admit I looked like I had water in the basement. But, it wasn’t until Confidante said his seven year old son wanted his pants back that I realized just how small they’d shrunk. “Are you saying I look fat in these?” I snapped.“No,” said Confidante, “You normally don’t wear pants that tight. It fits you like skin.” I took a gander at myself in the mirror near the desk. Damn, if I didn’t look like a blackened banana in them.
                 
I saw my first Christmas display yesterday. We haven’t even had Halloween yet. When’re we gonna learn?
                 
For some reason I’ve been dragging my butt around for the past few days. I don’t know what feels heaviest, my sinuses or my feet. This is the time of year when Mother Nature can’t seem to decide if she wants to be cool or hot, dry or humid, and if she’s had enough rain. The mold count must be high because everyone’s walking around sneezing. Folks at the hotel seem to have survived the virus that took its toll. Even the guests were sick. I kept to my room working and staying out of harm’s way.
                 
Guess who has an almost new pool table? Yes, finally. Two men were here today taking the pool table apart and re-felting it. We’ve even got new cups. I’d be overjoyed, except I haven’t played pool in at least six weeks, and goodness knows when I’ll get to play again. With Mr. Pool gone and Confidante in class at night there’s no one left. I asked the general manager if the men couldn’t wire the table like a car’s security warning. Every time someone with a glass of milk, or worse, gets near it, a recorded voice will shout, “Step away from the table.”
                 
My portable canvas closet has told me it’s time to change into my fall wardrobe. The pole disengaged from one end causing all the hanging items to fall on the floor. That was a rather blunt way of telling me I have too many clothes on one rod. Well, at least I don’t stuff too many clothes into the washing machine like some guests. Yesterday, I saw a woman roll a huge metal suitcase the size of a small trunk into the laundry with a tall laundry basket full of what looked like a month’s worth of sheets, towels and clothes. I’m assuming she’d used the sheets and towels elsewhere where they didn’t have a laundry.
Well, we may not have ice machines, but we do have a washer and dryer, and you don’t need to bring your own sheets and towels here, either. But, you do have to bring your own batteries for your…ahem. See blog post dated 9/9/11.

It took me two days to catch up on the sleep I lost from Friday night’s misadventures in the room with the loud speaker wall. How I made it through a three hour training session at church on Sunday afternoon was beyond me. I dragged myself through the evening trying to hold a conversation with Confidante and then…it hit him like a dense fog, slowly overtaking him, and then Pow! He was sick as a dog. I come to find out folks have been dropping like flies from something like the flu. Eeuw, germs. Out came the disinfectant wipes. Everything on the desk:  phones, mouses, keyboards, etc. got wiped down. I would have wiped down Confidante too, but he would have head butted me. For a change Mr. NyQuill had to take NyQuill. Poor thing never made it into work this morning. For him to miss work, he had to be really sick. 
                 
You know, it’s a good thing men don’t have babies. Squid and I were talking about this very thing. There’s no way in hell they’d put up with morning sickness, hormone changes that turn you into a crazy person, strange cravings, or the fact that you have this bowling ball attached to your insides that gradually increases in size and weight, and you have no choice but to haul it around for forty weeks. If men invented pregnancy the human gestation period would have been designed to match the length of the football season, since they’re on their butts anyway. And, then there’s labor. Let’s see how they hold
up under contractions that feel like your insides are being pulled out. Delivery? Try imagining pushing a head out of your… No, God certainly knew what He was doing when He gave the job to a woman. Mrs. Squid had her first ultrasound on Friday. Squid is going to bring it in to show me. He’s so excited.
                 
I probably should carve out more time for getting on Facebook, Twitter and to read my email, in addition to my blog and writing a book all day. I probably should clone myself too, because I have no idea how other people manage to devote so much time to socializing on the internet. Don’t you people work? Well, today I got on Facebook and there was a posting from a friend about how Facebook is going to start charging by the month, and if you already had an existing account and responded before midnight tonight, you wouldn’t have to pay like a new subscriber. Dumb ass me fell for it, but only because I trusted the person who posted it; another gullible soul. Had on logged on a day earlier, I would have seen other posts laughing about it.
                 
Today I perused the online sites for Barnes and Noble and Amazon to check out children’s books and toys for one year olds. Good grief. I was shocked at the paucity of classic titles for kids at Barnes and Noble. Amazon had more, but nowhere near what I was expecting. And, educational toys? I guess we’ve given the Chinese control over the dumbing down of America. ‘Tis a sad day. 

Yesterday, The Chef ended the day with a bang as well, but not in the same way his day had started. The event was still going on in the lobby when we heard a familiarly sounding crash. It was another stupid-something drunken male from another bar who felt the Please Do Not Touch signs all over the fountain were not meant for him. He decided to test the
waters and fell in taking the plastic tubing with him. Feeling he needed solace, his two older male companions picked him up to bring him to our bar for more alcohol. Fortunately, The Chef happened to witness the carnage and confronted them. I tried to explain how it was an all day job to rethread the plastic tubing in the ceiling. Then I realized I was trying to reason with another hemorrhoid who was too drunk to care. When the oldest of the trio decided his frequent patronage of our bar entitled him to call the shots, he proceeded to tell the young female desk clerk how she was going to handle it. I told her to call the police. He told me to shut up b--ch and F.Y. I smiled and told him to do the same. What is it with these guys? Instead of accepting responsibility for their actions, they exert their ‘manliness’ by mouthing off at women. The 411 guest stood her ground smiling. The Chef told them to leave. It was just another night of fun at the o.k. corral. I guess the hotel eats another one.
                 
Going to bed didn’t exactly improve my evening. At midnight, a Lovey and Deary couple needing a room for the night, burst into the loud speaker room next to me, laughing and giggling. At first, I thought it was little kids until… that’s when I realized these were horny adults. I mean come on. This is the same room where I can hear people chewing gum. I calmly got up and put in my MP3 player’s ear buds. Unfortunately, the juice was low in the battery and I knew the music wouldn’t last the night. Apparently, THEIR juice was plentiful, and it did last all night. Just my luck, she was a screamer too. I recognized his loud
mouth because he’s been here before with different women. He must ask for the same room. Maybe he thinks it’s a good luck charm. I’d been concerned they weren’t getting along when I overheard her getting spanked. Apparently she didn’t need rescuing because about 2:00 a.m. they put on a funny movie. They fell asleep laughing somewhere around 3:30-4 a.m.  However, I did not. I know this because it was about that time that I gave serious thought to shooting myself.
                 
Not even two cups of coffee were enough to clear the fog from my brain this morning. That is until I looked across the street, and saw a man leaning over a balcony in a blaze orange shirt. It so happened to match the color of a parking cone beside a nearby FIOS truck. Whoa. Good grief. Why would someone think they looked good in that?
                 
By 4 p.m. I had worked myself up into a good funk. This is not the time to jerk my chain. When I have gone without sleep, it allows all the little monsters hidden inside me to rise to the top like cream. They lurk there until someone decides to jerk my chain, and then they escape. Ask Confidante.


                 
  

Thanks to Indigo who works at a hotel and loves my blog.

It’s a wrap folks. I’m done with the final draft of my manuscript. So, until someone buys it, and an editor tells me something different, I’m going to concentrate on pitching it to an agent. I’d better find someone soon, because I’m already eager to start the next one. And,
now I can return to my regular daily blogging. That’s my intention anyway.
                 
I decided I deserved a decent meal for supper after ten months of working seven days a week writing, so I stopped for a take out of spaghetti and meatballs with mushrooms. I’ve often wondered why a treat for me has to be so fattening. What I REALLY wanted for supper was three scoops of chocolate ice cream. I’ve done this before, so I know what I’m talking about. Ice cream isn’t really food, so it doesn’t count. Unfortunately, spaghetti does. So, I only ate half of it. I’m thinking if I run in my sleep I can work it off before it does any damage.
                 
I got back to the lobby after getting dinner and walked into a wedding planning event. Back in the day, we didn’t use wedding planners and everything turned out okay. As a matter of fact, it was usually done while you were in the throes of getting ready to graduate college, taking final exams and looking for a job. Maybe today’s brides don’t have time to do the running around. Anyway, I didn’t need to attend the event seeing as how I’ve already done it once. 
                 
The Chef started the day off with a bang. I was rounding the corner on my way to the gym when I heard what sounded like a large bag of plastic utensils spilling onto the floor. Expecting to be helping him pick up a thousand forks, I retraced my steps to find one of the breakfast area’s sneeze guards on the floor in pieces.  It had shattered into a million shards of glass, impossible to pick up without a broom and dust pan. He already had the broom. So, I left.
                 
Today was a dreary day of pouring rain. We really didn’t need any more rain after the hurricane. So, I’m hoping this all counts for surplus, as in we don’t have to worry about a drought next year. At least the trees didn’t die prematurely this year, unless you count the ones that blew over in the hurricane.   
                 
This weekend we’re going to be full of parents for one of the local university parents’weekend celebrations. They’re gonna be SOL if it rains for the football game, and the rain is supposed to continue until Tuesday. Oh, well, there are worse things that could happen. They could all be stuck in the hotel lobby with no power or air conditioning, and fifty smelly dogs. I’m just saying.

I’m not even going to say it. No apology. You know where I’ve been. In case you don’t understand try writing your own book. The Chef tried to get me to leave my room and socialize downstairs tonight because I stay glued to the computer writing all day and night. I tried to beg off by saying I’d promised myself nothing would deter me from posting tonight after five days off from the blog. After an argument, I won. Here I am.
Besides, I had my hair cut and colored today. Vanity was a part of my decision not to be seen in public. It takes a day for me to be able to scrub the dye out of my eyebrows so I don’t look like Groucho Marx. 
                 
Well, who knew? Fish oil and vitamin E are blood thinners. No wonder I’m always cold. I take them both every day. It’s a good thing I don’t take a baby aspirin as well, or I might have water running in my veins. And, speaking of fish oils, I stopped by the Half Way to St. Patrick’s Day celebration Saturday night and bought a Baker’s dozen of steamed oysters. Yummy. I thought Confidante might benefit from eating some, but he wasn’t having it. Sorry ladies.
                 
I hear the UARS (Upper Atmosphere Research Satellite) is expected to re-enter our atmosphere sometime between Thursday and Saturday. If you live anywhere between 57 degrees north latitude and 57 degrees south latitude, which covers most of Africa, southern Europe, China and Australia, watch out for falling debris. Libyan rebels are hoping it falls on their former leader, Mohammar Gadafi since he refuses to leave on his own. 
                 
My 95 year old mother keeps telling me to hurry up and get published because she’s trying to hold off dying until she reads my latest book. And, in honor of getting it published, my hairdresser has promised to treat me to finally getting the tattoo I've been wanting since writing mysteries. I want a quill pen dripping red ink for blood; nothing large, of course. I’ll leave it for the artist doing it to make a suggestion. Where will it be? Hip level on my back. I’m worried about it wrinkling when I get old. I figure the back’s a safe place. I wouldn’t want the quill to look like a snake when I hit 95. 
                 
The fall shows are back on. There’s only 4-5 programs that I like to watch, so when summer came, I kind of enjoyed not turning on the TV. I figure since I’m no longer playing pool, I’ll need something to do this winter. Confidante doesn’t work nights anymore because he’s in class. There’s no one else to play with now that Mr. Pool is gone. Well, damn.