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Rockin' writers

It's our last night at the residency, and the final shindig was as fun as ever. Last year, I noted that these same writers were terrible dancers. After tonight, however, I've changed my mind. This reversal is based on fervent observation, and the fact that my friend, writer-extraordinaire Samantha Davis, has threatened to pound me to within an inch of my life if I don't retract it. She's no wimp, this Sam. She lives in the woods of Southeast Alaska, teaches eighth grade, kills her own food and fells trees with her teeth. Or something like that. Anyway, at Sam's urging, and upon my own visual inspection and participation in this maniacal frenzy, I shall officially confirm, here in the annals of this venerable blog, that these writers are not terrible dancers. They are enthusiastic, creative, goofy, whimsical and entertaining dancers. They are Barishnikov's with ball-points, journaling Jackson's, Pavlovas with pens, authorial Astaires.

Furthermore, these writers are talented, driven wordsmiths. They are all brilliant, and I am smug for the opportunity to count myself among them.


Comments

Unknown said…
your posts are proof that there is talent in this pool! Sorry I missed the thrashin' on the dance floor. Sort of.
12:00 PM
Unknown said…
I was one of those terrible "dancers" on the floor - all because Justin Herrman didn't stick to his vow to NOT dance. (I think the exact deal was something like, "I will go out on the dance floor when Justin Herrmann goes out there." And since he never went out to dance, I thought I was pretty safe.) I mean, I was raised Southern Baptist, for heaven's sake: dancing was too close to fornication so we were forbidden. So what you saw from me was not dancing (nor fornication), it was a seizure. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
6:35 PM
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