I’m fairly certain I don’t belong here—but let’s just keep that between us, okay?
After taking two connecting flights and spending most of the journey reading and writing (just hit 100k on my current novel; hurrah for self-imposed deadlines!), a car picked me up at the airport and dropped me off at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. It’s a grandiose old building, a little blustery, but full of history and character. My roommate and I made a grocery trip but didn’t realize you have to purchase plastic shopping bags in California, so we marched through the hotel in the middle of a wedding procession carrying armloads of canned chickpeas and ramen and bread. I was really hoping someone would look at us funny so I could confidently declare that I don’t believe in using plastic. Alas for missed opportunities.
Downtown Hollywood seems a rather manic place. If I had to sum up my shallow acquaintance with tinseltown, I’d say it’s a city obsessed with obsession. Looking out the window of my room, I can see the Walk of Fame, with all the star-thingies of famous people’s names, and a bunch of billboards and limousines. More sobering, I’ve seen quite a few houseless people today, as well.
I hung out by a poolside bar with some other writer people for awhile and realized that I know very little about philosophy and psychology (everyone’s so smart!), then went to orientation, met a bunch more amazing writers, and learned that I know very little writing. Dave Wolverton, author of Star Wars books and The Runelords series, asked how I was feeling, and I admitted I was overwhelmed. He told me that it may not feel like it, but we all deserve to be here. That was nice of him.
Well, sorry this was so long. There’s far more that I’ve left out, but I’m exhausted—my body tells me that it’s almost two in the morning, though LA insists that it’s not yet 11pm. I guess I’ll trust my body and sleep, just this once.