I am wrapping up a few last-minute writing things before our trip to New Orleans on Thursday. I still need to pack. I used to be good at packing. I could spend a month visiting my parents and bring only one suitcase with me. Now my standard operating procedure when it comes to traveling is throw clothes at the open suitcase, see what lands inside, zip it up, and go.
I tend to look rumpled anyway.
Choosing the books to take along with me is always a more careful procedure. Unless I finish Murder in the Rue Ursulines before we depart (and it’s a page turner, so it’s very likely I’ll be done before we go), that’ll be in the carry-on, along with What We Remember and Best Gay Romance 2010, which contains a story by a friend of mine whom I wish was going to be in New Orleans this weekend, along with several other people. I probably shouldn’t pack any other books, as a) I’ll be busy, and b) I’ll be buying lots of other books while I’m there. My book-buying habit is like a crack addiction only without the unhealthy side effects.