Resolve

My resolve is to write at least a couple of lines each day on . . . whatever--no matter what happens. I know a couple of lines is a pathetic goal, but at least it's some sort of writing resolve. I just got back from the Writer's Conference in Denver. Megan came with me, which is always wonderful. It intensifies the whole experience because I see and hear the speakers through her eyes as well. Sometimes they seem better than they actually are; sometimes they seem more pompous and arrogant than they really are. I loved eating at the Hard Rock Café with her as she gave me suggestions on what to eat and only took a couple of bites out of her own pulled pork sandwich. We sat next to Stevie Nick's wedding gown. We read scriptures every morning and used all the lush white towels the Marriott had to offer. She coughed her guts out, but she felt better the third day. We walked to the Hyatt Centennial ballroom to hear the main speaker, whom I did not know, but who turned out to be great. He said his own writing is influenced by the books he's reading. They drift through his mind like ashes from a fire burning bright outside a window (paraphrased). Megan loved it also, though she had to leave and cough her throat out in the lobby for awhile. We took pictures of each other later, while writers all around us got drunk at the little tables. As we walked to the sidewalk mall, two men passed us and said, "Wow, I wouldn't be walking at night in a big city if I were two women alone." I didn't hear them, but when Megan told me we burst out giggling. How absurd to two who had ridden around the New York subway at 3 am one year. Megan looked so tailored and professional with her jacket and Writer's badge on. I took a picture of her next to a huge blue bear.
We listened to Kirby read a semi-respectful poem about Jesus, but I couldn't help be offended because He (the Savior) is so sacred to me, but I had to admit it was a good poem as far as poems go.
I remember the huge bright-blue mustang standing in a meadow that we passed driving from the airport; the statue of a cow in the walking mall; the shuttle driver who wanted Meg to drive after he got in the passenger side instead of the driver's side; Megan getting me glasses of water; eating salads at a very loud bar after a reading; listening to Kittridge, whom I thought was dead and whom I admire greatly. I remember introducing Meg to Jack Harrell, whom she thought was a mouse. "Hi, Jack, this is my daughter. Megan, this is your father's friend, Jack." We walked through the hundreds of book publishers, bought cough syrup at 11 pm, and Meg bought me a cinnamon stick before I sat in on a Writers Abroad workshop. Arrived at the airport two big hours early, but sat at a small table, eating nachos and watched people. We were with the wheelchair athletes on the escalator--they broke our hearts with how much they tried.
Watched Hurt Locker but got up early enough to make it to the old church with stained glass windows. Then Ben beat us in three card games, while we waited for the roast to get done.
Beau flew in later that night, and the next day we all ate Italian--real Italian pizza and M. cheese with tomatoes--together in SLC before we drove back. I love my Megan and Beau.
Writing--even these few words--makes me want to cook a good meal. Ha.