I return to Susan Gulbransen's story about the early days of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference often, usually in the days leading up to registration. Always, with fond memories.
I see Ray Bradbury standing alone by the pool at the Miramar. I hear Barnaby Conrad's infectious laughter as he tried unsuccessfully to read a couple "Worst First Lines" contest entries with a straight face. I relive the night Charles Schulz made sure everyone who wanted a signed book would leave happy, no matter how late the hour.
And finally I think of the universe of possibilities that lie ahead in the stories yet to be written….
