The writing life! So exhausting! And Meacham's not over yet. Last night, readings by Richard Jackson, Judson Mitcham (fiction), and Ed Hirsch, who was poet-casual in blue jeans, tennis shoes and a nice jacket. I'm not always a fan of his work, but I did, in fact, enjoy his reading. Rick was Rick, always great, and Mitcham's story was a hoot, which is such a huge victory for me, because I generally cannot abide fiction readings.
Earlier in the day, a really bad reading. We shall speak no more of it here. At least for now.
Thursday night Bradley Paul read, which was great. Rick, who'd had, perhaps, a bit too much mine at our dinner, was seated beside me, whispering into my ear the whole time, in high spirits. Who else read that night? My mind is threadbare at this point. And I still have to read today. Heh.
Must decide on the poems. Adios, y'all.
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