Yesterday at noon, on my way to the orthopedist for the third and final gel shot in my knee, so I can like, walk, I was listening to Brendan O’Meara’s podcast, Creative Nonfiction, and he was interviewing Donna Talarico, the founder of Hippocampus Magazine and the creator of Hippocamp, and they were talking all about this year’s conference.
(I’m name-dropping, because I’m such a nerd that people who do cool things in the creative nonfiction universe are like the Kardashians to me, except smart, and not like in a cash-in-on-my-fake-celebrity smart.)
I had actually thought about attending, but I’ve already been away so much this summer that I didn’t want to deal with all the arrangements for another trip, so I kind of reluctantly decided to skip it.
The podcast reminded me . . . and I took a quick look at the schedule online, while I was safely stopped at a light, of course, and it looked good. And because hell, I’ve been home exactly one month. Time to get off the island. Then I realized that it starts tomorrow. (Or today, by the time you read this). And I thought, “Yeah, that would be crazy.” Nonetheless, I called my friend and colleague and enabler Carol (I called from 25A in Huntington, NY, where the orthopedist is, and where it is still 1950 in terms of cell phone reception. This will become semi-important, or at least slightly less irrelevant, in a sentence or two). Carol just got home from about seven days of driving around the northeast, and hadn’t even unpacked. Jokingly I said, “So I guess you don’t want to go to Hippocamp with me this weekend,” and then. . .I’m not sure what happened. Next thing I know, we’re on our way to Lancaster. (Even though that phone call was dropped (courtesy of the people on the North Shore of Long Island (read: Gold Coast) who don’t like to look at cell phone towers), and I couldn’t get Carol back for a few miles and while I was trying drove right past the entrance to the parkway and had to take the long way home.) #digressionismyspecialty
(Check out Carol’s work here.)
(Scout and Dill have spent so much time with their dog sitter this summer that I’m pretty sure they like her better than me. Or they think they think she is their mama and I’m actually the dog sitter.)
Despite a slight tear in the space/time continuum on the Cross Bronx (or maybe just on Google Maps) where the longer we sat in traffic, the earlier our arrival time became, here I am in the Marriott Lancaster, not even 8 hours after jokingly suggesting we go.
(Did everyone besides me know that Lancaster is a city? Like, it’s not all Amish Country? I had no idea. #payattentioninhistorynexttime #appallingignorance)
Stay tuned on Twitter/Insta/FB for what will no doubt be my extremely witty commentary on the conference. And I will definitely post, because the first session I’m going to is called, “Self Promotion for Wall Flowers,” and when it comes to self-promotion (all evidence on this blog to the contrary), I am a wall flower. And thus would like to skip the session but I am making myself go.
P.S. Not a white glove in sight at the Columbia Rare Manuscript Library. Major disappointment. Like, don’t they think their rare manuscripts are worthy of white gloves? Also, Letchworth propaganda and lots of it.
This is Not My Narrative 