Okay, I'm the one to blame for the coats. It's Dublin in March, I told them, it will be cold for the love of God. Not only cold, but wet, and when it's not actually raining, it will be so damp and drear that it will feel colder than it is. So here we are at The Duke, holding our coats during one of the warmest weeks on record, and waiting to begin our Literary Pub Crawl.
In truth it was glorious. All of it. The bus rides and the cobblestone walks. The scenery and the shopping and the sidetrips to Howth and Kilmainham Jail. The readings at the Dublin Writers Centre. The Evening Socials. The music at the pubs. Yep, here we are again at The Celt:
So really, maybe the weather didn't matter after all. We had great craic, inside or out. And writing? Oh, yes, writing. We wrote, by God. In those wee few hours between socializing and sightseeing and trying to absorb as much as we could of the fair city that is Dublin, we wrote -- each of us, mind you -- a complete story of the characters we imagined to inhabit The Charles Stewart Guesthouse, our home for six nights. Here's to creation! And celebration of creation! Cheers.
