That's a pretty big statement, Sir Jagger. Just having these lyrics going in the background (newfound Stones obsession), it makes a girl ponder what would be so damn enticing that wild horses couldn't drag ME away. I have a tendency to think that if wild horses were in any way attached to me, I wouldn't fight them. But *let's say* I did... what would it be for? I'm not thinking ideas. I mean, nationalism? Give me a break. Drag me away. For the sake of a political belief? Naw. Too cliche. Wild horses, wild horses, hm.... I think it all comes down to the sordid drug that has plagued my life: caffeine. If I am in line at Starbucks, it is fair to surmise that wild horses (but how many are we talking about here?) couldn't drag me away. This is important to know. I mean, I like to think of myself as a principled person, and I suppose that by now, I should have the perimeters of these principles drafted- traced, per se. So there it is. Lalalalalalalatte. And wild horses couldn't drag me away.

Now that we have that all-important issue squared away... The cd has moved to the next track, and I'm finding my writing COMPLETELY compromised by The Rolling Stones' "Best Of" album. So much for music being your muse; it's overtaking my train of thought, because now I'm plagued by an overwhelming shame of my normalcy. I mean, if I'm in a bar and someone asks me my name, I'm just "Lilly G". From time to time, I console myself, thinking that the silent h's ("not one- but TWO!") are a little mysterious and unusual. But there's someone somewhere who bats her eyelashes (although the asker is gazing at her body because no doubt she's annoyingly beautiful too) and goes "Me? Oh, I'm just Ruby Tuesday." (bat bat, look down)

Back on track.

The SDSU Writers' Conference turned out to be absolutely energetic and amazing. I mean, now that I come to think of it, nothing extraordinary happened. Ideas and hopes were floating down the hallway of the hotel like little soap bubbles. It was a high just to walk into the place. I met inspiring people who were lots of fun and put a human face on what had become, for me, a very electronic and dispassionate publishing industry. It renewed my passion for working with writers - it was just the recharge that I needed.

That said, I'm still part-time and nothing in my life is sorted out any more than a week ago. But I suppose that's the best feeling you can have: Realizing that there is work to be done, income to be made, a void romantic platter to be filled ;) -- and -- knowing that you have 'no right' to feel so settled, so happy, so clearminded, you do it anyways. I can't get no satisfaction? I don't think so.
LILLY THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS ... Today the roles were suddenly reversed. At a writer's conference tonight, my moms suddenly became the shy child, and I was the one trying to nudge her into the classroom to mix with the other kids. She didn't want to socialize, completely somehow momentarily forgetting her talents, and there I was, 'there to do business'.

They're terrifying - those little moments when we become the grownups. When the world does a quick flip upside down and you find yourself being more mature or serious or logical than you really think you should have to be. Sometimes I think I'm so big and grown up, but never ever to the point that I want to really go switcheroo. I'll leave that to quality Jodie Foster childhood films. Never do I look at my life of twentysomething leisure and fun and shake my head, grimacing that - oh, no, *I* want to be the support column, the crying shoulder, the temperature taker, the advice doler-outer.

I know the saying that, with time, 'the parents become the kids and the kids become the parents', but I'd like to look at tonight as a one-time eavesdropping into a parallel world that I won't have to explore any time too soon.

So I went over to her house afterwards, complained about how tired I was, and begged for her best homemade omelette. And all was right again.


There's a lot of pressure weighing down on these first few tappings of my fingers on the keys. There is pressure to say something coherent, intriguing, and witty. You know, just in case someone I know reads this and realizes something to crack my too cool veneer ;) "Oh, shit, wait, guys come over check this out -- Lilly is such a case! Read her blog! Her cover is SO blown!" I'm just gonna put that fear to the side for the minute.

What counts as making a difference?

Today I was having dinner with one of the authors I agent for and his wife. As I talked about all the plans I have for his book, I noticed him squeeze his wife's hand under the table. [Author mercifully omits extensive ponderances on the subjects of true love and lasting romance here.] Sitting there on the deck of the restaurant, floor heat lamp emblazoning my right leg, I heard his words come and go. How much we connect. How he's known I was down for the book since day one. How important my advice is to him. How much he looks forward to what may come. Scraaaaaaatch goes the record. Hold up now!.. The realization sunk in that he is totally honoring me by making me part of his dream. This man has been working his novel for years. I don't know if there's anything that defines trust more than him putting his pride and joy, his late nights, his best efforts, into my hands. Who am I to be trusted? Just because I smile and say the right things? It's powerful. It's also absolutely tempting to question yourself; to question how easily we trust people. Which gets me to thinking...maybe he's right. Maybe the problem is that we have taken trust to *too* conscious of a level. Maybe we think too much instead of just going with our gut feelings.

I watch Pele open one eye - his slumber on the dirty floor has been disturbed, and he jumps to his feet to growl at the door. He just knows that whoever is roaming the hall is bad news. I wonder if we all have that and are just unwilling to trust ourselves?

Trust is.