Always last minute me

I woke up this morning with a sore throat. I always seem to do this: get sick right after I've made it through to the end of something stressful. I also always manage to leave everything for last minute: laundry, the rest of my fiction piece, packing. I hate leaving in a rush of packing and hapazardness, but I always seem to manage to find myself there.

An inefficient overachiever, and a sick one at that.

I'll leave in the morning tomorrow, and drive for six hours. Signing along with the radio, trying to get the directions right, and feeling like my stomach might fall out my mouth, but I'll try not to focus on that. (Have I mentioned how anxious I get right at the beginning of things--at that cusp of unknown? I have. I know. But I really hate it.) But with all my heart I'm excited to be going, and I have questions that I'm determined to ask of the lady whose prose makes me grin, or catch my breath. But I also want to know answers from you. If you write, or read, or dream of writing, I'd love to hear your thoughs.

* Where are the lines between life and fiction. How can pieces of life, stories, characters, annecdotes become the tapestry of fiction?

* How much is enough? I'm forever writing the long piece. The piece with backstory on the backstory. I want to learn to craft a shorter narritive. Something with just enough to let the reader do the rest. How do you know when to leave off, without saying everything?

* And audiance. I don't feel like I have a sophisticated enough sense of audiance yet. Kurt Vonnegut says "Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia." If you write, who is your one person? Who is yoru audiance. Maybe that's my problem, I can never think of just one person.