In Denver, an AWP Virgin Speaks Up—but Quietly

So here I am in Denver, attending my very first annual conference of the AWP: Association of Writers and Writer Programs. I don’t know if it’s a sign, but after I gave my presentation yesterday for a panel called “Sick Humor: What’s Not Funny About Serious Disease?” I lost my voice. As of this morning, I’ve been forced to speak in a whisper that makes me sound like a cross between Dietrich and Brando. (To be honest, I sound neither seductive nor threatening, but I’m trying to heighten my sense of self-esteem here, and I’ll explain why in a minute.) Anyway, I have spent the rest of my time at the conference listening carefully and taking notes.

In part I’ve been taking notes because I’m feeling weirdly out of place. I figure that if I write it all down, I’ll start to understand why I’m acting like an undergraduate who doesn’t know what classes to take, or probably, more accurately, like Ralph Kramden in the classic Honeymooners episode when they’re all at the ice-rink and Ralph is realizing he’s not a kid anymore — he can’t make any of the right moves.

I’m an Aging Writer on Ice.

So why am I uncertain about how to read this conference or to figure out what’s going on in it? C’mon Gina, you’ll say, you’ve been to 623 MLA’s and NEVSA’s and Dickens Universes (Universi?) in your time. You, of all people, tend to enjoy the bread-and-circus atmosphere, the waving across lobbies, and the overheard conversations. You’d also be right to point out that it was a genuine honor to be invited to be part of Sandi Wisenberg’s panel, because there were these terrific writers-Sandi herself, as well as Paula Kamen, William Bradley, and the phenomenal Marya Hornbacher—at a large and very well-attended session. 

You’ll mention the pleasure of celebrating the birthday of  Dawn Lundy Martin, a fabulously talented young poet now in a tenure-track job teaching creative writing at Pittsburgh, who, 20 year ago, just happened to be the smartest kid in your women and literature class at UConn, and who sat down in the first row at your session—with her smart, accomplished and funny writer-friends and beamed her unmistakable smile. Drinks later that day on the 27^th floor of the Hyatt were a fitting birthday tribute. Then there was the great dinner with Daniel Born of The Common Review and Great Books Foundation and talk, talk, talk of everything, voice or no voice.

What the hell is not to like, huh? What’s this undergraduate angst about? How dare you? The nerve of some people.

Part of it is definitely the age business; I like young people, but I have never been to a conference where they were the vast majority of participants. They are all Brand New, baby chicks just hatching and I am afraid I’ll step on them if I’m not careful. It was both encouraging and unnerving to hear from innumerable undergraduates and early MFA students about their “take” on the writing “profession”—whether that was the world of poetry, or studying, or teaching, or publishing. There were a great number of cheerleading sessions on how to form communities of writers, start your own journals, publish your own books, and create your own buzz—but not much about the reality of the world outside the conference in terms of what the response to these gestures might be.

It isn’t easy to be a writer; to be a published writer, however, is much harder. To be successful or significant as a writer is very, very hard indeed. There seemed to be little recognition of this reality. Few people seemed to want to talk about this in any real way.

Given the post I wrote before leaving Storrs on whether or not the humanities are doomed, you can understand why I wasn’t sure how to react to discussions about how to land tenure-track university jobs without higher degrees and only digital publications, or how to deal with questions from well-intentioned young people on how to get their work into print so that they could be considered successful enough and talented enough to bypass the usual route of the Ph.D. and get a job based on their accomplishments alone.

To be honest, I was happy not to have a voice when, during the Q&A after a session on whether writers need to get higher degrees in order to land teaching jobs, one woman asked—in a voice filled with anger and contempt—why she should have to spend her time reading the lesser works of lesser writers when she could be spending the time writing her own more interesting work. “And plus there are language requirements? Why would I agree to take another language? I’m good at my own” she said, and sat down to scattered applause.

I was particularly intrigued by information given by a panel of experts for a standing-room only session called “The Future of Book Publishing: How Authors Should Navigate the New Market.” The group was a powerful one-elegant and erudite Mary Gannon of Poets and Writers chaired it, and panelists included Lee Montgomery of Tin House, Dennis Loy Johnson of Melville House, and New York agent Julie Barer—and it was one of the few sessions where people in the room held their breath in order to listen better. This was because the folks on the dais not only knew what they were talking about, but were in decision-making positions.

To be continued…