I would like to thank everyone for the lovely comments on my last posting regarding Nationals. After my 3 a.m. confession, I took a break from reading any comments for a few days because I felt strange and nervous and, well, exposed for having been so honest about something I struggle with that seems so darn silly. Blogging itself is strange. Putting yourself out there in front of innumerable people, sort of privately enclosed in your own world, sort of totally… open. Vulnerable. You can chose not to be, of course, and that is fine too, but it’s sort of nice to be able to share — say what you will about “tell all” blogging. The need to confess can’t have sprung from no place inside of Augustine (roughly 1700 years ago, if memory serves). I think it’s part of being human and being social. Humans needing other humans to be human and all that — perhaps the most fundamental aspect of romance. But that’s quite enough of *that*. Back to the regularly scheduled blog…

… by way of yoga. Last Friday I went to a yoga workshop and actually had to leave because the room was so crowded (an inch between each mat — no joke) and the instructor had us pair up to do something after only an uttanasana and a prasarita padottanasana. I knew as soon as I heard “find a friend, go to the wall, and…” that I would be leaving not to return. Pairing up is helpful, I see how, but… but… having a stranger’s hands on me seems the exact opposite of any iteration of a good yoga practice. So invasive. The teacher whose class I usually take on Friday nights happens to never make us partner up in addition to being a brilliant teacher, and in that I am very blessed. I skipped his class to attend the workshop, and as upset as I was about having to leave, I couldn’t be there any longer. It wasn’t my yoga. Writing it out makes it seem so ridiculous, but it’s something very real inside of me. I left thinking of Nationals, and how I don’t want to find myself on the train headed toward home when the conference was just beginning. I want to be part of romance writing, and I think I think I have a place there somewhere, though maybe not today; I’m not certain I have any place in American yoga. 

But… I have another reason to go to Nationals now. I was first in a waiting list for a volunteer slot, and that slot has opened! Yes, I’m terrified, but I am so pleased to be able to be there at least with a few hours of purpose. From 7 a.m. to 11 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I’m registration help. Over the next couple of weeks I will be looking for just the right thing to wear on my first day of a very big deal in my aspiring romance writing career. And I will still be practicing, “so, tell me about what you write” in front of the mirror (and praying I don’t say that to, like, Lisa Kleypas, or, Lord forbid, Nora Roberts, or anyone of that magnitude — hopefully I will be so on the fringes that I won’t even be able to rub the elbow of those rubbing elbows with the big names, so I won’t have to worry about it at all).

Okay, so this wasn’t the regularly scheduled blog at all. I had a handwritten blog about poetry and voice. (Not that I have any astute observations or methods to share, but I was thoroughly prepared to gush over my favorite voices.) Well, not prepared, exactly, or else it would have popped up at 2 a.m. Eastern Time this morning on the blog. It’s only written out by hand in a notebook as of now. Next time, perhaps.

My love to everyone, especially those I’ve been MIA to these past few weeks. And happiest of reading and writing to all.