Marathon of Words

The schedule for this week in Banff is intense. It's words, words, words from the moment I wake up to the moment I flop, exhausted into bed. A day in the life:

6:40 Press snooze three times, dimly aware that the number of snooze pressings is increasing steadily as the week progresses. Drag self out of bed.

7:00 Make latte with Mom's Starbucks Barista Home Espresso Godsend Machine Of Happiness. Scrounge brain for semi-interesting idea for blog post. Find nothing in brain. Write a half-assed schedule post.

8:00 Eat breakfast while showering, dressing and drying hair.

8:35 Receive phone call from security company, cleaning company, condo board or someone else who needs yet another key to the parents' luxury golf course townhome. You've distributed at least six keys so far, which reduces your feeling of personal safety by a factor of six, even though one of the keys went to a security company. Who locked you out of the house yesterday.

8:50 Dive into the car because now you're going to be late for class.

8:53 Enjoy the sun splashing all over the mountains while driving on Highway 1. Observe the difference between the recreational National Park drivers and the 'If I'm Late For Work Again, I'm Dead' National Park drivers.

9:15 Pull into Banff Centre parking lot, park the parents' silver Honda CRV beside the other silver Honda CRV just to mess with them a little.

9:26 Walk through Lloyd Hall, grab a "free" coffee that is probably intended for people who actually sleep in Lloyd Hall. Continue to class for brief awkward pre-class small talk.

9:30 - 12:10 Read and discuss deeply personal work of varying degrees of finishedness, interestingness and goodness. Sit in baffled silence as Facilitator Bill rattles off strange words, expecting you to know the Latin roots as though you went to school prior to 1970 or whenever they stopped teaching Latin in high school.

12:15 Wander stunned to lunch. Sit in same place at same table with same people.

12:17 Browse dessert options before proceeding piously to the salad bar. Make note of the greyish meat of the day. Yesterday was gargantuan, frightening-looking lamb shanks.

12:25 - 1:20 Discuss writing, workshops and the people in our group who drive us crazy.

1:20 - 5:30 Walk to tiny, mountain-view office. Write like mad, despite serious levels of creative exhaustion and sensory overload. Feel conflict between writing another short zinger piece to make people laugh at the readings or actually working on my book which suddenly, deflatingly feels a long, long way from being finished.

5:30 Wander in search of Best Friend Bill. There are two Bills in your life here. Facilitator Bill. And Best Friend Bill from Toronto. Find BFB either in the pub, at dinner or walking around with a coffee and the paper.

6:00 Gather for dinner cursing yourself because you said you would buy groceries and make dinner rather than going to the buffet with everyone every night. Rationalize that groceries would cost you at least $14.90 (what dinner costs) and that you're getting a 60% Artist Discount and where else in life do you get a 60% discount on food that reminds you you're an artist? Besides, you're making connections. Connections with other unpublished writers who don't have agents or editors.

7:30 Return to Writer's Lounge for readings. Observe pulse rate edge into mid-170s.

7:45 Make small talk, trying very hard to focus on what the other person is saying rather than freaking out over the fact that chances are good your innate need to be the centre of attention will overtake rational thought, forcing you to volunteer to read something that is nowhere near as polished and nowhere near as rehearsed as the piece you did the other night.

8:00 - 10:00 Listen to readings, observing who prefaces their work with things like, "This is a really, really rough draft," or, "When people complain about modern poetry, this is what they're talking about." Eventually give in to the people who want to hear another piece about lady parts and walk up the podium. Read about midgets from laptop, observing nervous twitching in butt. Realize halfway through that you are reading from an older, much less polished draft. Consider jumping out the window. Feel grateful when they laugh.

10:00 Mingle with wine and nod as the Political Correctness Police, a.k.a. Connie From Toronto, corners you and tells you how you can't say midget if the person had dwarfism. Start to explain how you've actually done research in this area and there are varying opinions on the subject, including a growing number of young little people who are 'taking back' the word. Shut up as she cuts you off because she would know because she's worked in non-profit community service organizations for thirty years. Look at the floor and mumble something about how it was an older draft and you've already changed it.

10:30 When her back is turned, duck out the door. Drive home berating yourself for responding to peer pressure and your big, fat ego. Decide to never read again.

11:00 Rethink that decision while brushing teeth. Get into bed with the three twenty-page stories Facilitator Bill wants read by tomorrow.