Strolling through the Bookfest

I must say, I really enjoyed my day at the Bridgewater Bookfest even if a good part of my time was spent chasing flyers and business cards that blew away. We had some rather breezy conditions, but nothing with enough oomph to rearrange the tents. And it was the last weekend of the Three Rivers Arts Festival during which we are notorious for some wicked weather.

My table was set up next to a food booth selling hot dogs and Haluski. Have I mentioned my diet? I’m in the midst of Phase Two. The really strict phase. The phase where all food (especially the greasy, nasty stuff) smells fantastic. But I behaved myself and brought my own lunch, which I actually ate.

I handed out a lot of brochures and flyers and business cards. Those that didn’t blow away, at least. I talked about Pennwriters and the 2009 conference. I hope a few of the people I spoke with will follow-up and join.

For several hours of the day I had company at my booth. New Pennwriters member Lisa Spahr came to assist me and to sell her book, World War II Radio Heroes.

The absolute high point of my day occurred when I was strolling through the festival and an elegant-looking gentleman/author adorned in Native American finery stopped me to tell me “You have the coolest walk.”

I do?

After a bit of chatting, we determined that my yoga posture might have had something to do with it.

But the fact is I have never been told I had a “cool walk” before.

The problem is now I’m self conscious about how I walk. I’m trying to dissect my stride. So whatever was cool about my walk is probably gone.

Comments

Becky said…
Very interesting I will try not to watch you walk. But now we are not going to be able to help ourselves!
Hi Annette.

It is a cool walk- even when chasing business cards in flight.

I enjoyed spending the day with you too!
Annette said…
I don't know what to say. I still remember when I was about 13 or 14 years old, my mom told me I walked like an old farmer.

Has to be the yoga training. That's my only explanation.

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