Careful, or you'll end up in my novel.

That's what one of my favorite t-shirts says, and I particularly like to wear it on Saturdays because on Saturdays I always wake up imagining I'll get a lot of writing done. It sort of declares my intention, and in spite of the fact that I've yet to actually write a submit-able novel, I do persist in the belief that I *am* a writer. No, a Writer. Of course, most Saturdays nothing actually gets written, not even blog posts. Maybe some email. But I keep putting on the shirt and thinking about retirement approaching, and THEN, by golly, I'm going to get serious and WRITE.

This past Saturday we were in Ashland again for Round Two of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival

and I wore my favorite Saturday t-shirt. Well, talk about an attention-grabber! All day long, people coming up to me to say how funny the shirt was, people snatching at me as I passed, people calling out to me, a couple actually chasing me down to say how much they liked it. It was kind of fun. Actually, it was a lot of fun. Ahh, my kind of people -- old hippies, mostly. Literate and with a sense of humor! Yay!!!!!!!

As we left The Black Sheep (English pub-style restaurant where I had enjoyed a plate of Welsh Rarebit and shared a serving of Spotted Dick for dessert)

on Saturday evening our waiter threw me a peace sign and said, "You're welcome to put *me* in your novel if you want!" I feel like I should, somehow. You know, when I write one. (Note to self: tall skinny harried young man with dreadlocks and a winning smile...)

In line for the restroom just before the show (it happened to be a delightfully visual but plot-short 2000 year-old play from India called 'The Clay Cart'), the woman in front of me said how much she liked the shirt and asked if I was a writer. Of course (see above) I said yes, but added that I had not yet published and was looking forward to retirement so I could focus. As it turned out, she was a local and she writes and she proceeded to rattle of a list of writer's conferences and retreats and online resources that she knew I would find helpful. I don't remember any of them but it was incredibly validating to be taken seriously by a total stranger. Then the woman in back of me said I was welcome to use her ex-husband as material if I wanted.

Sunday I was wearing a Mexican peasant blouse, jeans, handknit socks, and sneakers. No t-shirt. As I crawled over a long row of the already-seated to get to my seat for 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' (yes, again, and I'd go back for thirds if it were possible), yet another woman jumped up and grabbed my shoulder and said, "Yesterday you were wearing a shirt that said, 'Careful, or you'll end up in my novel.'" I admitted I was. She said, "That was so funny! Are you a novelist?" I guess I could have said I was Anne Rice but I think most people have an idea what she looks like. So I just said, "Well, yes, but I haven't found a publisher yet." Which is true enough. She said, "Well, never give up!" and I went on to my seat to have a fabulous time.

Eventually I need to write a novel, all the way through, final draft and all.

Review of the festival this time: I would love to bring this production of "A MIdsummer Night's Dream" home and keep it. 'The Clay Cart" was enjoyable, actually. There were a couple of others that were so-so, but nothing anyone would have heard of unless you'd been to this exact festival (new plays). And then there was "Our Town," by Thorton Wilder. Two hours of my life I'll never get back. I read it in high school. It hasn't gotten any better.

But next season: MACBETH!!!!!!