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Mini writing retreat

Every year my company goes down to Florida for our big sales conference, where we eat lots of food, get drunk, cringe in horror as coworkers make awkward and out-of-date disco moves on the dance floor, and something about selling books we might be publishing... I don't know, that last part's kind of fuzzy. Anyway! Technically I report to work next Monday afternoon at the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota (don't cry for me), but I'm going down this Saturday morning on the earliest flight possible - the holy-fuck-o'clock flight, I believe it's called. This gives me two days to do nothing but sit on a balcony with views like this, get room service like this, and finish fixing the novella in one horrific, expensive booze-fueled blaze of glory, just like this!

I know, I know: you're all making skeptical faces like this. No, really. In the last section, everyone gets hit by a dirigible. Driven by squirrels. THE END!

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.

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August 2012
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