Writers

The past two days I have spent an inordinate amount of time with writers. Or people calling themselves writers. And I realize I may fully be included in that latter group.

I have met the young, just out of college (or not), "I'm going to be a writer when I grow up" girls, who giggle at witty comments from male speakers of any age.

Then there are the grandmas. I assume them to be retired English schoolteachers but I could be wrong. They are a mixed group, one said "computers? I hate computers. I refuse to use them." Good luck on your writing career.

Others ask questions of the panelists just to have the opportunity to tell all about their project and elicit their admiration, or perceived admiration.

Then there are the authors. Some have been absolutely genuine, humble and helpful. Others? Well there is the one who was a broadcast journalist, and then there is the bizarre blogger who has had a nervous breakdown, suicide attempt, Katrina survivor and now cancer patient - she never smiles and her eyes dart around like she is paranoid. With that kind of luck, I'd be paranoid.

Then there is the broadcast journalist, and the memoirist, who has wrote four books. I said four, in case you didn't hear.

Then there was the writer who used to be a broadcast journalist -- that is just a fraction of the times she said it in 30 minutes.

Oh and I forgot to mention, the broadcast journalist has a book coming out this week. She didn't forget.

I know I sound snarky and more than a little bit jealous. I admit, there is some envy present, but I hope if I am ever that lucky that I will fall into the first category of humble and helpful people.

If I don't, I am counting on you my peeps, to call my ass on it. Don't fail me.