I'm probably going to sound like an old-time fogie, a 42-year-old man with aches and pains like that of an 80-year old. Hypochondriac, I am. But, for real, have plantar fasciitis. Should my mom be checking this out, there's no need to freak. Plantar fasciitis is a fancy term meaning: my heel hurts. I had been planning to run a 10k marathon with my wife, and trained in should-have-been-thrown-out-long-ago running shoes. Now, I can barely walk. I've had this many times before, usually comes with too many deep calf raises with heavy dumbells. Clears up with rest, Ibuprofen and time.
Thing is, today, I'm driving to Houston to attend the TLA conference. As you may remember from my ALA midwinter meeting experience, these conferences require a lot of walking. More walking than my wife's marathon, probably. And, right now, the thought of all that walking ain't sitting so well with my sore heel, throbbing as I type this.
Though my name was left off the official author/illustrator signing list (I'm such an outsider), I will be there signing my new book, THE HIDDEN FEAST, at the August House booth, #1728. I'll be there in the afternoon today, and again in the morning on Thursday. In between, I plan on playing groupie to my favorite children's authors and illustrators, and mingling with the many names that I am actually familiar with. Living in Texas has been a great thing!
I think it might be tacky to wear my new running shoes on the exhibit hall floor, but my sore heel is telling me I should. The mere thought of getting out of my seat and walking to the kitchen just plain hurts.