Denver Envy

I wish I could stare into the Benign Indifference and think brilliant thoughts, today, maybe even fashion a few pretty sentences. Instead I can’t stop thinking about how some of my favorite people in the world are at the AWP conference right now. And here I sit, stranded in Maine.

I should be sitting on a stained carpet in an overcrowded room, forcing my spine into a dangerous curve so I can see over the shoulder of the linebacker in front of me. I’m tired and hungry but full of love, watching the panelists at the front of the room look at each other, shuffle their papers, conduct a whispered conference. Start now? Now? Me? I’m going first? Now? Okay, I’ll start now.

Too many recent birthdays I’ve spent alone at home while my husband attends the Masters golf championship with his father. This year I registered for a room in Denver and declared the AWP conference the perfect birthday present. In December after three trips to the mechanic, new tires, and a couple of other surprise hits to the bank account, I loosened the fist and let my choice room go. Still, I held out hope that I’d make it to Denver. Oh, but there the car goes again. So here I am, at my desk, imagining all the great stuff that’s happening without me.

Like: A meet n’ greet with my biggest current writer-crush, George Saunders. By some happy realignment of my place in the universe, I recently made friends with someone who was his student. George Saunders is in Denver. My friend is in Denver. Right this minute I could be giggly and stunned stupid, staring at poor George, oozing foolish awe and proving myself to be a stuffed ass. I’d nurture that awkward pause following my friend’s introduction, never thinking to unlock my wide eyes, until my friend clears her throat, takes George by the arm, and walks with him to a group of smart, talented people who are capable of speaking in his presence. Probably before their retreat I’d get a George Saunders handshake, and I would cherish it forever. Now this might not sound all that fun to you, but to me it’s the stuff of soft-lit fantasy. Ahh, yes. The AWP conference is perfect for nurturing writer-crushes.

Or giving birth to them. The one year I made it to the conference, 2008 in New York, I saw Michael Martone for the first time. I’d heard that he was a wonderful, warm, quirky experimentalist but I hadn’t read him yet. I strategized, got my bagel early, and managed to get a front-row seat at the panel on experimental writing, where Martone was the opening act.

A tuxedo? What the hell is he doing in a tuxedo? Whatever, it worked. He read a piece written in response to some anti-experimentalist trash-talk by Jonathan Franzen—a public moment of writerly angst I didn’t even know about at the time. I’d describe Martone’s piece but I’d kill it. Just know it was full of explosions and wit and by the end Mr. Franzen was well-crisped. I was transfixed by the beautiful writing but mostly I was jazzed by the manic pace of the prose. From the first bow-tie-enhanced sentence, the subtext of that performance, for me, was I’ve got to write something like that. When Martone disappeared out the door, his coattails flying as he spirited himself to his next engagement, I snapped out of my trance and began to write.

By the time the fire alarm went off—in the middle of what I’m sure was a terrific piece by the third panelist—I’d covered several pages of my notebook with the crazed voice Martone had inspired. I wrote during the drizzly sojourn outside the hotel, while we waited for the all-clear, and I wrote when I got back inside, as the interrupted reader began her piece again. I felt a little guilty not listening but I was sure that of all the writers in the world, the experimentalists on that panel would appreciate what I was doing. I used their energy and the moment, weaving it all into a story I finished when I got home. The setting was a conference on performance art, held in a hotel, and a fire alarm figures prominently. Thank you Mr. Martone! I will love you for that, and now your fabulous stories, forever.

Like: Seeing my teachers from my MFA program, connecting with fellow students I never got to know while I was there, feeling embarrassed and in need of alcohol to get the tongue moving, worrying if there’s lettuce in my teeth over dinner. Soaking up the hugs, offering congratulations on publications and awards, wishing I could get back to my room and sleep. In my weird version of shy, parties and dinners like these are painful and angst-ridden but also the stuff of the public part of my writing life. I need it. Sure, there’s lettuce in my teeth, but so what? I’ll work it with my tongue while I take in advice I need and jokes I need more.

Like: Strolling through the vast array of tables covered with literary magazines and books, grinning like a fool at all the hopeful people manning those tables but keeping my feet moving because I know at this moment I can’t produce words that will make a sentence. Then brought to stillness by a breathtaking cover. No, ma’m, thank you, I don’t think I will buy one of these today, but oh. Beautiful. Just soaking up the presence of all those gorgeous pages. How much longer will we be able to do that?

I know some writers dread the conference but I can’t imagine why. What could be bad about so many writers in one place? Dispensing advice, telling personal stories, maybe drinking too much at one of the parties and making fools of themselves. Why on earth would you want to miss that?

A veteran of the conference warned me before I went to New York to prepare myself for the “over-the-shoulder-hug.” That’s when, he explained, a writer greets you but while saying hello looks over your shoulder, scanning for someone else more important. Mind you, this same veteran insists that writers, as a group and in general, are the nicest people in the world, and I believe him. Still, I want to know who the over-the-shoulders are, don’t you? I’d love to catch someone at this. I mean, if nothing else, the people-watching opportunities abound. And I’m missing every bit of it.

If you’re missing it too, Meg Pokrass is holding a virtual conference for those stuck at home over at Facebook. Surely you already know about it, but if not, check it out. Then save your pennies and catch me next year in D.C.