Today marked the official beginning of yet another sold out San Francisco Writers Conference at the lovely Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill. Michael, Elizabeth, Laurie, Linda (and the countless I cannot name), you have done wonders to make this a nonstop whirlwind of success for all parties involved. And it really was nonstop, exhausting even, from the time I arrived to the time I escaped, nearly 12 hours later.
The life of a writer is fraught with danger. No, not physical—unless you consider countless paper cuts sustained from printing out 300 pages of your manuscript to send to an agent, or perhaps tumbling backwards in your computer chair after a moment of deep contemplation—okay, make that stubborn writer’s block. …
My advanced fiction class started this week and there are several promising new novels in the mix. It is always interesting for me to see, that no matter how many craft classes a writer has taken, there is often the commercial element missing in their presentation.
It seems Washington is a beautiful place, even in late January. Having lived in California most of my life, I naturally thought that the best way to prepare for my twelve days in the Pacific Northwest was to fill my suitcase with thermal shirts, scarves and of course, plenty of flannel.