June 11, 2008

Yesterday I did something I do very seldom: talk in person with another writer. I met up with writer PA Brown (LA Heat), who was in town for the Bloody Words Mystery Writers Conference. People have the impression that writers are solitary by choice, and that may be so, but there’s one thing we all love to do—talk about our writing. In my and Pat’s case, we were both happy to spend a couple of hours by the harboufront rehashing writing stories and griping about other people’s countries, specifically the one to the south, where Pat lived for a number of years. At present, Pat's working on procuring a new agent after the defection of her last one (to another job), as well as polishing a fourth novel she hopes to place as the follow-up to LA Heat. We had a good gab about writers’ habits (how long does it take to write a book, where do we find our stories, etc.) as well as the craziness going on in the land to the south (then again, when isn’t it going on?), and the likelihood that Bush and his sordid bunch will provoke a war with Iran to extend Bush’s presidency. (In the event of a major conflict, US elections can be suspended—let’s hope Bill C. still has some influence, especially if it means a better position for Hillary if the elections are held.) Then I came home and did what I always do—spend hours in a room populated by the people who exist only in my imagination.

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