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My Mother Says I'm
Funny
My friend Dorkus and I attend a local
writer’s conference where I feel alternately brilliant and stupid during the
entire three days.
Dorkus is a most enjoyable traveling companion, being both sensible and
possessing many unusual qualities that make for good writing fodder. Dorkus
arranges for us to stay in her friend’s home, which she says is "rustic." I am
completely unprepared for the 8 x 12 shack that first comes into view. I
feverishly begin to look for an outhouse as the place is so small it could not
possibly have a toilet. Dorkus laughs hysterically at my dismay and tells me
that I can stay in the woodshed if I like, but she will be staying in the cabin.
I am overjoyed to see another structure across the expansive property, the
setting is beautiful and the house/cabin very comfortable.
After I see the spotless cabin, I make a mental note to pick up after myself. We
begin to prepare dinner and I confidently open the wine with the "rabbit ear"
corkscrew that I brought along; the cork disappears into the bottle. This is not
the plan, I try to dig it out and find that I am only able to spray wine all
over the pristine white counter. I immediately clean up and apologize profusely
while successfully knocking the entire bottle of peppercorns on the kitchen
floor. I make more apologies and encourage Dorkus to gulp more wine. Wanting to
help, I begin to build a mighty fire, but this time I set off the piercing smoke
alarm for a good five minutes. Dorkus begins on another glass of wine; she
remarks the wine has hints of blackberry, cherry and cork. I am sure she is
regretting inviting me but I am helpless to correct my bad behaviors, I seem to
be unable to stop myself. I slink off to bed for the evening. In the morning I
find I have accidentally turned the electric blanket on to "bake," I wake up in
a confused sweat but am ready to take on the authors/editors/agents at the
conference.
We are somewhat delayed as my dear friend Dorkus can find nothing to wear. I
seem to recall that I carried in several steamer trunks of her clothing; surely
there is something to wear in one of the trunks. She parades out to show me one
outfit after another. She wants to have just the right look for the conference.
Looking at my watch, I wonder aloud at her ability to make a "correct" fashion
choice, after all she is a twenty year veteran in the fashion industry. Dorkus
dithers about and finally comes up with a fetching ensemble; I find it rather
amusing that she borrows a necklace from my meager belongings to complete her
look.
We meet many enjoyable people and lecturers at the conference. We find at the
end of the day after attending different seminars that we both seem to gravitate
toward the same people. Did she meet Madam Red Hat, I ask? Yes, she did and
enjoyed her very much. What about the women named Shawn who is writing a
humorous take on grief? Yes, she met her and got her number. This is all very
satisfying and we trade information; we are both suitably impressed by the
immense amount of talent at the conference.
I learned about famous authors who are rejected time and again only to send out
one more manuscript, write one more article, or bribe a publisher with homemade
jam before their initial acceptance into the publishing world. This is all good
to know as I am soundly rejected by most of the editors but encouraged by all of
my new-found friends. My favorite comment was, "There are lots of funny people,
what is so different about your manuscript?" I unflinchingly try to explain that
my mother enjoys my writing quite a bit, but lecturer didn’t seem impressed. At
this point I feel very much like I have been rejected by one of the judges on
"American Idol", but I refuse to be intimidated and tell her to have a nice
flight home. I hope she is sitting in coach next to a person who has the same
penchant for spillage that I do.
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