PossumHaw of Bluster

[ismo]

I was right in one of my predictions: the hors d'oeuvres were mediocre. I was also correct that there would be no writers in my field. However, I was wrong in my general gloom and cynicism. It was actually a lot of fun, and the Sparrowhawk claims I could easily have been mistaken for an extrovert. It was an act of desperation, really. I was there, and I didn't want to spend the evening sitting glumly at my table, so I ran around the room introducing myself to people. I even forgave Mr. "I-Skimmed-Your-Magnum-Opus" and decided to give him another chance. The poetry readings were, in fact, excellent. And I find that readings are like live music, in that they give vitality and color to the words and notes. The first reading, by W. Todd Kaneko, contained a really sweet, poignant piece called "Elegy for Mr. Spock" that was the closest to genre of anything this evening. Or maybe not . . . the second reading, by Linda Nemec Foster, included poems from her latest book, "The Lake Michigan Mermaid," which involves the voice of an actual mermaid, so I guess that's genre in a way. I bought several of her books from the book table, intending them as gifts for some of my family, and she personalized them with gracious generosity. I don't know if they'll ever be able to get their writers festival going--the evening was not well attended--but it was worth it to encounter some new poetry and feel however briefly that I was still a writer. Now that I'm home, I'm extremely tired.