I head to the Squaw Valley Writer's Conference this weekend. Summer Camp for adults. I was looking forward to getting away somewhere warm but after checking the weather I realized that dream too is dead. The nighttime temperature is in the 40s. It will be nice to get away for a week, have a new environment, concentrate on the writing. I'm taking a fat excerpt of the novel, and am terrified. I haven't touched the novel in almost a year. It haunts me, the characters questioning if I ever return to them. I imagine they want to know where they're headed more than I want to know. The thing is that the absent main character in the story is a woman like me, maybe too much like me for me to be comfortable writing towards when she'll make her inevitable appearance. She isn't a heroine. She is selfish and emotional and unable to connect to anyone fully. My protagonist is such a sweet girl, I don't look forward to disappointing her. But the book is at heart about disappointment. It didn't start off that way.
In news of unthinkable acts of stupidity, I have second degree burns on my left breast. The accident involved boiling water and not thinking things through. I ended up in the E.R., sobbing, scalded and with missing skin, with horrified nurses clutching their own unmarred breasts in sympathy. Thanks and love to B for driving my weeping self there. My family showed up, as well as the man I've been seeing and they all got to meet in the waiting room, to my chagrin. I like to have more control over if/when/where I introduce romantic partners to my family. But, whatever. My family liked him. I came out, all bandaged and in shock. I was in shock for a while. Sitting in my head with the walls up. I woke up crying yesterday imagining the scarring I'll have but after a visit to the doctor, he assured me the scarring, if any, will be minimal.
I miss dancing.