Every night I've had something to do. Monday night, David has his parents over for dinner, along with his best friend Nick, and there was much laughter. In the end, that is. In the beginning there was only me being crabby because the house was messy and the food uncooked and someone thought everything would be done in time so I should just stop stressing out and also bossing people around in the kitchen. I was actually sent out of the kitchen since I was "being a fascist" and "obviously needed a nap." Harsh words, yes, but they were said with tenderness I assure you. And somehow, everything did get done. And it was lovely.
Then the last two nights I have taken advantage of the meetup phenomenon, which gave me several good friends when I was alone and loveless in New York (you know who you are, ginger). Tuesday wasn't actually a meetup, but an event I'd read on a post that was on the meetup site, so it counts. Apparently Edinburgh is the first, and so far the only, UNESCO City of Literature in the world. And on the last Tuesday of every month, literary types of all stripes and varying degrees of success come together for a literary salon, where they sip wine and mingle and talk about books. I loved it, minus the social awkwardness I always suffer from at these events. You know, groups of people standing around chatting with each other as I wander aimlessly around the room, rapidly emptying wine glass in hand, looking for a cue to enter into the conversations of people obviously better at small talk then me. I literally (that's punny, get it?) don't know what to do with myself. So I sat on the couch and looked at brochures until I saw someone sitting alone at which point I downed my wine, thrust my chest out, and swooped down on the poor soul like a socially handicapped vulture. Luckily it was okay and she didn't scream.
Then last night I attended my first Edinburgh Writer's Workshop meetup group and it was excellent: just the right size, with good discussion and writers with actual talent. I was immensely pleased. Of course, I was the only one who actually offered any criticism, as most people said how much they "just loved the imagery" and "thought (insert title of piece) was wonderful." This unbridled courtesy is no doubt a British trait and will hopefully be remedied by my brash "I just want more from your writing" American personality. I'll let you know.