Speaking of Stupidity…

This weekend I attended a writer’s conference at the coast. Soon after I arrived, something happened to my brain. It thought I was in high school. Once again I felt like an space alien. It didn’t help that most people there were published. A lot. I struggled every second to blend in. Or at least keep the other authors from shoving me into my locker.

As always in these situations I forgot to meditate, I forgot to pray. But the triumph is that I didn’t hide out in the bathroom, my favorite survival technique in school. I even went up and talked to people.

But on the last day I wished I’d stayed in the bathroom.

Sunday morning I arrive late to breakfast, so most tables are full. I sit down in an empty seat, then realize--Oh no! I’ve sat down next to a Big Author, a speaker at the conference. (We’ll call him Emerson Waldo.)

This creates a crisis. On one hand, I want to suck up to this guy; after all, he’s famous. At the same time I have total contempt for the extremely narcissistic lecture he gave the day before. I decide I will say nothing, eat my breakfast, and get out as fast as I can.

But he looks at me expectantly. Rats. I have to talk to him.

I don’t want to be like everybody else: “Oh Mr. Waldo, I just adore your latest book.” So I say, “Tell me. What was your childhood like? What made you into the writer you are today?”

He looks surprised. Good. He must be intrigued. Maybe he’ll retain fond memories of “that delightful conversation with...what did you say your name was, Miss?”

His answer: “I liked to read.”

I say, “Yes, but we all liked to read. What experiences led you to writing your particular books?”

“I spent twenty years clerking at K-Mart…”

I am shocked. “I can’t imagine you clerking for twenty years.”

“Pumping gas was worse.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Abruptly he stands, “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.” He LEAVES!

I am appalled. What a rude man! After I tried so hard to give him something interesting to talk about.


Following breakfast I go to a Panel Discussion by all the conference speakers. To my surprise, I don’t see Waldo. What’s happened? Did my questions upset him? Is he sick? Hiding in the bathroom?

Stop it, Poe. I push away my neurosis and tune into the discussion.

Then I see one author I don’t recognize. I say to my friend, “Who’s he?”

“That’s Emerson Waldo.” Long Pause.

OMG! I’d been talking to the wrong person! No wonder the guy got up and left. He must have thought I was a total nut case.

For ten minutes, I think about going back to my room and seeing if Housekeeping could lend me a gun to shoot myself with.

But suddenly I started laughing and haven't stopped since. According to Al-Anon, one mark of maturity is the ability to laugh at oneself If so, I must be the most mature person in town.

Mature but really, really stupid.