So hot last night in the Dangerous Writers' basement. Everyone in shorts and tank tops but me, and why did I somehow think being in a basement would mean it couldn't get all that hot? Yes, there's something in science about heat rises but there's also something in science about cramming lots of bodies in a room under a flank of hot lights. Sitting there in the crammedest spot in the whole place, my back against the wall and John at my left and Brad at my right - my god, Brad's got on some sort of button-up long-sleeved shirt.
I never much mind feeling hemmed in, but at 4 o'clock yesterday, workshop about to start, the air in that place felt like a hot bag of wet cement. I don't know if you can have a hot bag of wet cement, but I was having one of those panic thoughts like, I don't know if I can do this. Sit here trapped at this table for four hours.
Of course, as much as I'm a wimp, I'm also a wimp, so I wasn't about to get up and say, OK, I've got to leave. Even if I did have to have some sort of claustrophobic heat wave freak out.
But seriously, the magic of a good story. As soon as the pages started going around the room and we started reading, I forgot about the claustrophobic heat wave freak out. I have to hand it to the table. Stories so good you could read them under a hot bag of wet cement.
Moving books around
8 hours ago