“I got in!”
“Did you get in?” My husband is either really good at asking questions I just answered, or he’s really bad at time traveling.
Indeed I had gotten a space at the biennial Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. I’d committed, in mind, body, and finances, to hanging with talented artists who write from the heart, from the funny bone, and from the back of the closet within arm’s reach of stashed bags of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. (What? Just me?)
While being an introvert has its advantages – after I suggested “long nap” as an activity for a kindergarten class party, no one dares ask me to be a room parent – walking into a conference with hundreds of strangers is daunting. Still, I felt oddly compelled to try to attend this one, in ways utterly unlike how I feel compelled to do laundry every few months.
Missing this workshop…
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