I'm going to a conference. There - said it.
More, I signed up and paid last night.
There is a decent early-bird discount before Monday so it's worth considering the early move.
I go to a book festival every year that features a number of author talks about writing. It isn't a workshop but it has workshop elements.
This year: craft workshop.
There's a bit of courage required for me in this endeavor.
First, there is the conference. I'm not a huge "joiner" but I figure this will be like an engineering conference: extroverts will be looking at the other guy's shoes. (rimshot, please).
I should wear my Al Green two-tones.
Then comes the point where I'll run across a bit of instruction that will highlight some hideous inadequacy in my craft.
Inevitable, really. Pain, not injury. Walk it off.
I'm going to get better at crafting my prose. I'm going to be a better story-teller.
Hemingway says that you know you are writing well when you fill the waste bin with good stuff.
There is work to do.
Lady Macbeth has it right. We can't write crime without spilling a little blood.
Some of it must necessarily be our own.
Off I go.
I'll be the guy in the two-tone black and white leathers, if I get the courage up.
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