Paint the Town Red Party

After two days of stressing out over saying the right thing, meeting the right people, pitching the right pitch, blah, blah, blah, I finally got to do what I really came to the writing conference for: DANCE.

Now the other Kritique Kritics didn't know this about me before the conference, but I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. And it is serious. Oh yeah, music is my obsession and whenever I hear it I have to dance. It starts with my fingers tapping to the beat. Then my head begins to bob up and down. Finally my feet are tingling so much to jump that if I don't let them I'm afraid they'll hop right out of my shoes and take off by themselves.

Now, Debra knew I wanted to find famous authors to have my picture taken with. And she is so sweet that she searched high and low until she did. First it was Sid Fleischman who was charming, gracious, and didn't even tell me to hush when I did my "I'm-having-my-picture-taken-with-Sid Fleischman" scream.

When the music was really pumping Debra managed to find Bruce Coville. Using my feather boa she yanked me off the dance floor. We scurried across the grass and there he was: the amazing, inspirational, famous, multi-talented, opening speaker of the conference. When I posed next to him I thrust my hand behind my back so he could feel my palm instead of my disgustingly gross sweaty shoulders. Celebration played during the polite conversation that followed and I tried to focus on talking to him. I really did. I even shared some sentiments on what is valuable for children. But the music was calling to me. I was seeing the moves in my head. Then came the B-52's. I love the B-52's! Come on Laurie, focus I tried telling myself. But it's Love Shack. You can jump, jerk, and be-bop to that song. I told myself to be polite. I told myself to talk books. I tried. I swear.

But in the end my compulsion won out. It's a disorder. I can't help it.

I stopped Mr. Coville mid-sentence. "Excuse me, I have to dance now. Thanks for the the picture."

Then I ran off and boogied the night away.

Sorry Mr. Coville.