This happens to be a photo of my kid on the morning he stepped inside an exhibit of blue (Venice Biennale, a few years ago).
But it is also a metaphor for me last night, as I prepared to talk about a river to some very wonderful people who had gathered at a nearby library. Let's just say that the technology gods were not with me (the lap top and the projector were not on speaking terms) and the lights were going dim and my brain was pumping panic and I was about to have to improvise (and I had a migraine, and migraines are fundamentally opposed to improvisation) and then: Elizabeth Mosier (whom I hope you all know as the author of MY LIFE AS A GIRL) saved the day. Called her husband (artist, writer, jewelry maker, rock band guy Chris Mills) who arrived—snap of a finger, white knight fashion—and insisted (a touch of his hands) that the two machines end their pointless dispute and reinvigorate their dialogue.
The machines obeyed.
The show went on.
But here's the thing that I remembered later, driving away from the scene of it all: How easy it is to think that we writers are all alone in a swell of blue, and how often we are saved.
On another note: HarperTeen has started a great My Space blog on which their authors are daily posting. Check it out, if you can: http://www.myspace.com/harperteen
