It's 100 degrees right now, in Utah. But that's okay, because it is a dry heat, right? It's a heat that starts building up around 9:00 or 10:00, by noonish reaches its apex, and then, from noon until 4:00, it settles in, feels thick, implacable, unending. Those four hours are the longest and the heaviest of the day. When I'm home, I lie as motionless as possible in the coolest room of the house with all the blinds down, sprawled so that no skin is touching any other skin, breathing shallowly and letting the giant industrial fan blow hot air over me. The cat sprawls on the tiles in the hallway, which I have tried, but it is not good for my back.

I am looking forward to moving, this weekend, to my apartment with the central system that blows cool, forgiving air and lets me believe in life and the possibility of happiness again. But I am going to miss the best part of the day, when I am in my third-floor apartment. The early morning, around 7 a.m., before the sun has really started to work at it, and things have finally cooled off, overnight--it takes all night, for things to cool off. It is beautiful. It is cool and crisp, even a little chilly, and the slant of the light is luminous, and the crazy people who walk by at night are all still passed out in the back seats of their cars.

So I signed up for that writing workshop. And I regretted it, the day I was supposed to start. Regretted it hard, and spent a lot of time worrying. And now, it's two writing workshops down, with next week being the last one, and already I'm nostalgic, and sad, and don't want it to end. Which, you might have noticed, is a full 180 degrees away from panicked, and terrified, and wanting it to never start. That's always a nice surprise, when things don't blow up in my face exactly the way I expect them to. Someday it'll stop being a surprise, because things so infrequently turn out exactly as terrible as I think they will, and that is an object lesson--gormless fear takes up entirely too much energy, and wastes entirely too much time that could, instead, be spent clog dancing for cardiovascular fitness or thinking about cheese. Write that down, everyone! Don't worry so much that things are going to go wrong. Wait until they actually go wrong. And then figure it out from there.

It was an adult education class--people who are looking for a little stimulation, a little culture, a little comradeship, who are a little bored. And they were enthusiastic, this room full of writers who want to write more, and it was really, really nice. We talked about the basics, and I said useful things, I think, and I learned useful things from the useful things other people said, and I love the instructor and want to be her best friend. She is a sci-fi nerd, and funny and enthusiastic and fun, and really, we ought to get married. But everyone was cool, if a little weird--and that pretty much sums up a person who wants to write, I think.

The conference was over (a little bit of a "finally," right there, because picture being spun around a hundred times and then, pushed off a cliff. That was the weekend, more or less), and the UnConference was starting, in one of the smaller meeting rooms. Mo Pie and I had dropped by to see what was going on, to say goodbye to people before we had to leave ourselves. The shape of the UnConference was interesting--a room full of people, all of whom got to suggest topic ideas for panels to throw over the next eight hours. They said, "Come put a session on the board!" and it seemed that nearly everyone in the room got up and started writing down their ideas. With so many people lining up sessions to lead, we wondered who would be left to actually attend the sessions. Too many bloggers, too little audience.

All weekend, it was so many bloggers, and all weekend, we talked about ourselves, and what we write and how we write and how to write more and what to write about when we're writing even more, and how to take our blogs and make them bigger, stronger, faster, more exciting with better bells and whistles. We talked about how to make the leap from writing online to the fancy, legitimate world of publishing. We talked a lot about ourselves, and it was very important and we had many good things to say about how blogging is going to save the world, but mostly, we really did talk a whole lot about ourselves.

It's 1:00 in the morning on Sunday night, and I am finally home, sitting with a glass of wine, watching the cat sniff things in the yard, and enjoying the feeling of not wearing three-inch heels or pants, any longer. Since Thursday, I have been wearing three inch heels and pants. Right now, if you were to ask me, I would tell you, not wearing any of those things, being in a nightshirt, sipping too-cold wine, not talking to anyone at all, not laughing or listening or being mutually charming, is the best thing ever in the history of the world.

But if you had asked me any time these past four days, "What is good in life?" I would have told you right here, where I am, at BlogHer. I have to tell you this: a room, a ballroom, a giant hotel ballroom that's taller and wider and longer than most entire high schools and government building, full of smart, savvy, articulate, brave women--it is a breathtaking sight. It scared me stupid, walking in with my plate full of breakfast and looking for a place to set my things down. And it awed me, when the keynote speech began and we all turned toward the stage and they said "Welcome to BlogHer!" and I realized who we all were, and what a powerful force we've become, and that I still hate the word "blog."

As you read this, I am on my way! To BlogHer! It is possible I am already on the plane, or just touching down and on the BART train into the city, or checking into my hotel, or running over to Walgreens because I forgot to pack lotion (again) or having a wardrobe crisis and flicking, panicked, through the sales racks at Anthropologie looking desperately for the kind of dress that says "Fabulous blogger with excellent personality and enjoyable bosoms, with whom you would like to be very best friends," and also, "Awesome."

Whatever I am physically doing, it is a good bet that I am spiritually freaking out, because oh my god, BlogHer. Giant conference filled with giants of blogging, a thousand hundred million incredible, smart women who are intimidating in their incredibility, their smartness, and their incredible smartness, and way, way too much to take in all at once without experiencing uncomfortable seizures. BlogHer, home of so much good information and important facts and very good people, you want to weep at the beauty and impossibility of it all, because there is no way you're going to be able to do everything you want, see everything you want, talk to everyone you want, and avoid spilling a drink down your dress, totally making a fool out of yourself. I'm a little nervous.

Tonight is my first writing workshop at the library's writing center, and I, for one, am absolutely terrified. It's been years and years since I've been in a writing workshop. I don't remember how the dynamics work, I don't remember how to participate without turning bright red, how to talk about writing, how to talk to other people, frankly. How do you have a conversation with someone? How do you make people think you're smart without actively trying to be all impressive and trying to make people think that you're smart, because there's nothing, worse in the world, really, than someone who is obviously trying to be all impressive and cool when they are not. Help. I'm not impressive and cool.

I'm also not a creative writer, any more. A writer writes, not blogs, or creates newsletters or direct email campaigns or internal articles about new HR initiatives. I don't remember the last time I wrote a word of fiction. It has been so long since I've written anything down that I do not remember how the words go. How do you make words turn into characters and themes and plots and stories? Words are so small, and these things are so large and complex and impossible-looking. I look at the book I wrote, all one billion pages of it, and I wonder how the hell that happened. Where did it come from? How is it possible that it will ever happen again? Fiction writing comes from a very specific place, and I have a feeling that my specific place has been condemned and boarded over and is now lost to the mists of time, forever.

Big, gorgeous loft apartment: mine! But I can't have it. Not yet, anyway. There's too much going on. I have a guest for a week, and then E's older brother is in town for a week, and then I'm going away for a long weekend, and I've got so much work to do and so there is no time for packing and no time for moving. And I am going to need a lot of help with this move, as it is up many stairs and my arms are noodle-like. Lots of offers of help, but no way to coordinate everyone. I still have an entire house to pack.

I'm pinning all my hopes and every single one of my dreams on next week. Next week is when things get better. Next week is when I will be happy and my hair will be healthy and shiny and my teeth flossed and my meals balanced and my house packed within a matter of mere hours. It will fly by, the next week, on wings of productivity, and that weekend I will close my eyes for the first time in my new apartment, on my nice bed, with all my things surrounding me in boxes, and be terrified to sleep because it is so creepy and not be able to sleep anyway because I have so much to unpack, oh man oh man.

All last week, I had a guest. And it was wonderful to have a guest and we had a great time and we hung out and I entertained him like a good host and we went places early and came home late and I had freelance work to do, that wasn't getting done, and I glanced at my emails but didn't have time to do more than skim and run away and I let the house fall to pieces but it was okay, because I was busy, and I'll pick it all up when I'm done with this having a visitor thing. But I felt kind of scattered and disorganized and out of touch, a little crazed, trying to keep up with the daily stuff I couldn't let go to seed. I am surprised everything did not blow up, because frankly, I spent the week unsure what day it was and forgetting my own head because it is not nailed down, for that is a biological impossibility. And uncomfortable.

So I sent my guest off into the wild blue yonder, and I sighed a sigh of both melancholy and relief to have my house back, and I laid down for a moment, but then got back up, because holy crap, do I have so much to do and it all should have been done yesterday. I had forgotten how putting things off just means you have to do them later, not never ever again. No, I hadn't really forgotten. Not really. I had just indulged in a little foolish, hopeless hope.

My friend Rod, who I have known for 18 years--can you believe that? It doesn't seem right, that I've been alive for way more than 18 years--is leaving tomorrow afternoon, after staying with me for a full week. On the one hand, yay! I get my house back and my days back and the proofreading that has been stacking up dangerously, terrifyingly high can finally dwindle again and I'll get to hang out with my boyfriend for more than ten minutes at a time and go back to my regular routines (for four days, before I leave for BlogHer, but I'll worry about that when it shows up and slaps me in the face).

On the other hand, boo. This has been such a good week, and I have remembered all over again why Rod and I have remained friends since I was 17 years old and dumb and crazy and making mistakes all over the place. He lets me absolutely be myself--my most awful, bitchy, rotten self, my incredibly silly, bouncy, crazy self--in a way that few people can. I feel absolutely comfortable around Rod, and I can tell him anything at all. I can confess major screw-ups and horrible thoughts and terrible deeds, and beautiful insane dreams of world domination and plans and portents and ideas and signs I have seen, and he is always, always on my side.

We rented a car, this week that my friend Rod is visiting. It is easy for me to get around this little town on my little blue bike, but I think in hundred degree heat it is best for me to not try and give my friend a piggy back ride while I veer down the street and crash into a storefront and lacerate us both into tiny little bits that burst into flames under the hot, hot sun. And it is much, much too hot to walk anywhere. And waiting for the bus in the heat is gross and sweaty and the buses are filled with the crazy and take a long time to get anywhere. And I am both impatient and lazy. And so we rented a car.

Renting a car was the best idea ever--Rod says, "I finished my book on the plane!" and I say, "Let's go to the book store!" and we are in the car and there in a flash. Rod says, "Hey, what kind of fast food do you have here that we don't have in New York?" and I say, "Oh my god, you have to have mini corndogs from Arctic Circle!" and we are there in moments and I virtuously do not have one of their Arctic Shakes even though I want one so badly and no one will believe me when I say I didn't have one, so the sacrifice remains entirely unacknowledged. And then Rod says, "I love your thumb drive! I should get one!" and we are at Best Buy in a matter of moments--all of them places I can't get to on my bike.