Mory's.   Circa 1914.

Mory’s. Circa 1914.


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.



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