Today after a half day of real work, I head to Little Switzerland, NC, for a writing workshop. Four days of writing, reviews, talking, and yeah. I don’t know what else. Are we gonna, like, sing? Campfires and shit? I don’t know. I sent 15 pages of my manuscript to the instructor (I’m doing the junk on memoir and non-fiction, obvioussssssly) last month. I half expected her to write back, a flurry of accolades, begging me to go ahead and send her the rest of the proposal. She didn’t.
I’m not worried about my writing. If it sucks, it sucks. If I’m worse than the others, so be it. Improvement is good, necessary, welcome. I can take criticism, sorta gracefully (By sorta, I mean that while I will not curse and scream and cry, I will go to my room and curse and scream and cry.) What I’m concerned about is the camp-like vibe of this little retreat.
First, there are no TVs. What? Writers don’t like to watch TV? If Top Gear is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Secondly, there’s no Internet (OK, I lie. There’s apparently “spotty” service in the lounge). Fucking hell. I don’t even know how to address this. Granted, I need Internet to ichat my kid with a story every night, yeah. But I also need Internet to, you know, blog. And check Facebook. Oh God. Oh God. Panic.
Also, um, what if everyone is weird? They’re gonna be weird, aren’t they? Yeah, I had a dream that I got there late, went to class and they were all wearing black and someone had a beret. If I see a beret, I might lose it. They’ll find me rocking back and forth in the corner, humming “Carry On My Wayward Son,” violently tugging at my earlobes.
- There will be no water pressure. It will take me 30 minutes to wash and condition my hair. Bad for the environment, bad for the psyche.
- No one will eat dinner with me. Or lunch. Or breakfast. Like, what if I get to the dining hall first and sit down with my little tray of veggie lasagna and salad… I glance around, and take a tentative bite. People begin to pour in, and sit at every other table. I’m alone. They chat. They laugh. I choke down lettuce and pray for a quick death.
- There are no smokers. If I’m the only one, I may come back smoke free. I ain’t kidding. How lame is it to be the only one with a shameful nicotine habit? No, this would not be a blessing in disguise, so don’t EVEN say it. As mentioned above, I already have an anxiety complex about this retreat. That, along with four-and-a-half days sans Marlboros? Alright, I already pick the hell out of my nails. I shall come back with bloody nubs.
- I fart in class. This needs no explanation.
- I burp in class. One time I was in church, right? It was that silent moment before we all began saying the Lord’s Prayer. I needed to burp. I was certain it would be silent. It was not.
Alright, I think that actually typing this shite out doesn’t help. Cathartic? No. Anyhoo, if there are no blogs full of resounding misery or ecstatic insight, you’ll know I have no Internet. No. Fucking. Internet. Goodnight and good suck.
P.S. Search term used to find my blog: “mommy sucks sucks sucks.” True story.