One of my favorite things about writing is meeting the people behind the words. And, for a few hours on a Sunday evening, I got to meet Debra Fetterly of Breathe Lighter. She and her husband Jay drove from Los Angeles to San Diego to meet MTM and me.
And we are richer for it.
We shared food and laughs and stories. I confess, I didn’t want the night to end. I am already conspiring another face-to-face meeting.
I hope it can be soon.
Thank you, Debra and Jay, for going out of your way to meet us. You are our people, and you know what that means. We reach across the invisible portal of the worldwide web to find connection. And sometimes, that happens. And it’s really, really incredible when it does. (And that’s the limit of our private conversation that I will air.)
Have you met someone in person from a connection that started online? How did it go?
Enjoy Lyle Lovett’s version of a Private Conversation.
A few days ago, I had dinner with a friend and fellow writer. It had been a while since we saw each other, and we spent our first drink catching up. (Kids. No-family-holidays-with-family destinations. Parental craziness. Jobs. The usual stuff people talk about.)
By drink two, we'd loosened up enough to delve into the challenges of being a writer, of trying to make people care about our words enough to actually read them.
"I keep seeing this person who always says—right out of the gate—, "I'm so sorry I've been too busy to read you." My friend took a sip of her drink. "I never quite know how to respond to that. What would you say?"
Have you ever showed your a—, well, your derriere to a friend? No, I don't want to know if you've ever mooned someone. I'm more interested in whether you've put someone at the butt-end of your personality.
Because, Lord knows, I have. I could probably populate a blog with those stories for the rest of my life.
Fear of change brings out the patootie in me. Especially when someone tampers with my food.
Four ladies won the auction, so this night was their option
To spend with their friends while the men are forgotten