Sugarplums

Mory's.   Circa 1914.

Mory’s. Circa 1914.

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This is it.  I’m going off the grid.  In a few days, I’ll be heading back to New Haven for this year’s writing conference.

I should call it New Heaven: this land of no TV, no dog walks, no cooking, no errands, and as little of this internet as I can stand; this land of Calhoun College, Mashed Potato Pizza, Mory’s patio, and a crowd-favorite bar called, not ironically, BAR.

Every day, I’ll have workshops and master classes with two of my favorite writing teachers — Eileen Pollack and ZZ Packer — and afternoon sessions on craft with Susan Orlean, Tom Perrotta, and Kevin Wilson, to name a few.

Every night, I hope to fall into this very narrow, hard, slippery-sheeted bed, completely exhausted, with visions of paper books and dancing sugarplums.  And with high hopes for at least one, really loud and rainy, east coast thunderstorm.

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Happy reading and writing everybody.  I’ll see you on the other side.

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