The Writer Observed Outside His Natural Habitat

Even if the date weren't seared on my soul, I'd know that Saints and Sinners was coming simply for the emails.

Writers are a solitary group. Well, group may not be the right word. Given the choice, I think most of us would either run away to the mountains or hide ourselves in plain sight in huge metropolitans where our cunning day disguises never hint that, "Hey, you wanked over my words last night." So imagine our frisson of terror when it seems we're going to be gathered in one place and have to be - gasp - social.

My sister often points out that we were raised by the two most socially inept people on the planet and grew up socially retarded. Three years of cotillion only put a nice facade over the fact that we have no idea how real people talk to each other, much less make friends. Sure, I have a buttload of gracious manners- when I choose to use them- and I'm never in doubt of which fork to use even if the line-up stretches two feet down the linen-clad table, but a backyard bar-b-que mystifies me.

Now that SNS is approaching, everyone is trying to get into a comfort zone. No one wants to eat dinner alone. I don't blame them. Either do I. Still, I think it's a little funny that so many people are checking in with me, world's most inept social butterfly, to make sure I'll be there so that we can meet up. Maybe they need to know which fork to use. In that case, I'm golden.