Last night I dreamed that I invited 20 contributors to participate in an out-of-town reading and offered to get them a hotel room. Of course, when I said hotel room, I meant one, for all of them to stay in -- with Chris and me. There were two queen beds, one for Chris and me and another for the other 20 poets to share. They were pissed and complained they were uncomfortable, crowded and I promised them . . . I became exasperated with their complaints and argued with the more vocal ones. Nobody was swayed. What did they expect from me? I'm just one woman, I thought. Eventually I relented and got a second room, and allowed one of the tinier poets to join my bed. Some of the contributors (Jill Essbaum, Bruce Covey, TB (? -- since when did she write poetry?) and six others) took it upon themselves to get a third room with a stocked bar. But I still got the sense everyone was disappointed with me.