This time last week I was stressing hard over a social event—specifically Reading Writers’ Novelist’s Day. It’s one of the group’s weekend events, where writers get to meet for a full day of discussion, critique and chat. Why was I stressed? Because I had, completely against my nature, agreed to host it at our house. Normally Casa Conojito is a refuge, a place TLC and I retreat to after the world is done with us. We don’t normally invite people we don’t know into the gaff. Let’s put it this way—party animals we ain’t.
However, the day went well. I think. I hope. It all flew past in a bit of a blur. But the five novelists and I were able to show our work, chat about the particular challenges inherent in writing a long-form project. There was even room for pastries and sausage rolls, so I’m calling it. A victory. I know I’m making a big deal out of a comparatively simple thing—Rob hosted a soirée, big whoop, hardly the Royal court at Versailles, is it?—but I felt proud and happy to have done something nice for my peers, share the garden I’m always banging on about and ultimately, spend time with people who get me. That really is worth shouting about.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Continue reading The Swipe Volume 1 Chapter 34