Friends of American Writers or Bust

Don and I are in Chicago where we’ll be attending the annual Friends of American Writers awards luncheon tomorrow, beginning at 11am. There will be a lunch, a reading, and book signings.

But this is how frazzled the end of the semester has me: we were about to pull out of the driveway at our house in Madison when we realized we’d forgotten Josie’s dog food (we were dropping her off at her dog-sitter’s house and Josie is on a special medical diet). We retrieved the food and began to leave again, when we realized we didn’t have the name of the hotel. We ran back inside and looked it up, got back into the car and headed out. Ten minutes later I realized I’d forgotten to bring a copy of my book–from which I’m supposed to read at this luncheon. So we turned around and retrieved it and then, as we got back on the road, I realized that there’d be a bookseller at the event and I could have just bought (or maybe even borrowed) a copy.

UnknownThen, at about the same spot where we realized I’d left the copy of my book home, I realized I’d left Andrew Malan Milward’s book home as well. Andrew, a friend from his stint as a fellow at the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing (where he wrote much of his book) is also receiving an FAW award and I was hoping I could have him sign my copy of I Was A Revolutionary. This time we didn’t turn around–we just sighed and drove on–but I’m feeling so disorganized and scattered.

Ah, well. A night with Don in Chicago will be restorative, I’m sure. And I’m also sure the event itself will be lovely. It’s being held at The Fortnightly of Chicago, a woman’s society that promotes the intellectual and cultural lives of its members. The building is beautiful.