April, it was Woodstock, where I fell in love with John Elder Robinson and frightened Comma Queen Mary Norris with my rabid adoration of her grammatical perfection.
July in Portland, Oregon, workshopping new work on our family legacy of truth, lies, facts, and fiction with Michelle Tea.
August means three days in Lancaster, Pennsylvania surrounded by nonfiction writers, the brilliance of Mary Karr, the sharp wit and fab scarves of Jamie Brickhouse, and before I leave, some Dutch Haven Shoo-fly Pie. (There is still time to sign up, and enough pie for everyone.)
And later in August, halfway around the world, twenty-two hours on a plane and across the dateline with BFF rockstar editor/knitter/feminist pundit Debbie Stoller to New Zealand for the WORD Christchurch Writers and Readers Festival. I’ll be on a panel of sex worker writers, in case you happen to be in the area.
