I am in Nashville at the Southern Festival of Books. I was on a panel today at 3:30 and I had planned to go straight back to my hotel afterwards and work, but I loved the other writer speaking with me, Lara Santoro, and she was completely fascinating and it turns out we have the same agent and after sitting down to sign books* we walked downtown and went to a long dinner and split a bottle of wine and split some ribs and some shrimp and grits and then ordered more wine and then went to Tootsie's where we did SHOTS and had more wine and beer and heard many many Johnny Cash songs and saw many many cowboys and strange tan ladies and now I am back in my hotel room and I have but one question burning in my breast.

Should I go see Kinky Friedman speak tomorrow?

* I would like to note that ONE woman came up to me with my book and said, "I can't remember why I ordered this." She looked totally perplexed. She said it had arrived yesterday and that she was trying to remember what had made her order it but COULD NOT REMEMBER but thinks it was because it "looks morbid." I smiled graciously and signed because if there is one thing I am it is (morbidly) gracious.