Two years ago I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing. Frederick Buechner was the main attraction. His books had comforted me in darkness, and I wanted to say thanks. That experience was amazing, but more amazing still was the discovery that in a large gathering of writers I fit right in. I found my niche, my place in the world, and I'm very grateful.
Festival time is here again, and I wanted to express my appreciation, so I supported the festival with a small donation. Gratitude keeps on giving and the festival has in turn invited me to a reception. I'm hopeful that the reception will be an intimate affair spangled with literary glitterati and me. My imagination is floundering in fantasy, but I come back to earth quickly with that all-important question--what to wear?
I've thumbed through my wardrobe without enthusiasm and the family budget has declared my festival spending spree closed. The more I consider the possibilities, the more the question seems to be what NOT to wear. After all, these are the literary equivalent of porn stars who've sent several thousand copies of their naked souls out for general consumption. In such a grand company of exhibitionists, wouldn't good manners dictate that I should strip at least a little to put them more at ease?
In honor of Emily Post I've decided I simply must print up a few of my better pieces to hand around. Perhaps a few of the worse ones too. After all, away from their editor's retouching, some of the stars might find that spare tire embarrassing; a glimpse of my thighs ought to be just the thing to get them back in the spirit.
But, if that's the fashion, then what is my poor husband to do? He's an engineer. He could describe his machines for several hours and remain just as clothed. Listening an engineer naked is a difficult skill to master, but one I've enjoyed practicing. No, I suppose I'd best keep my clothes on for his sake. We'll have to content ourselves with enjoying the view.
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