Memories of the AWP

I went to the AWP in Chicago in February.


Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing. Chicago? In February? Am I out of my mind? But I went. And it was... Amazing.


The weather stayed pleasant for us Californians; clear and cold. It didn't rain. In fact, we even got a little bit of snow at one point. But we were in the hotel for most of the event, so we didn't really notice the weather until we poked our heads out to take a look around.


Some favorite moments and observations:


The AWP is a writers conference. Now I've been to conferences before, but the clientele have been slightly different: scholars, professors, etc. And there were many of those here. But I could definitely sense that this was a different breed. These were the Artists. These are the Writers Who Take Their Work Seriously. A young poet I met put it best: He said that he could look around and see himself in all the different stages of his life: the young ingenue, wide-eyed with wonder; the determined student, building his skills and trying to break in; the published poet, confident and professional; then finally, older, fading, trying to stay in the public eye. And he was right. Everywhere I looked, I kept seeing people I knew, or thought I knew. Maybe they were reflections of friends far away; maybe they were pieces of me, from my future or my past. It was like stepping into an alternate reality, dizzying in its possibilities.


I met Gregory MacGuire.


I met the fellows from McSweeney's.


Most of the conference felt like a regular conference--I went to panels, listened and took notes on various aspects of the writing life--but I knew I was in a different world when I went to the reading by the guest artists. First off, the "reading" was held in a *huge* auditorium; it could hold 1000 people and they filled it to capacity. Next they opened the event with a "marching circus punk rock band"... Yes. That's exactly what it was. This was the weirdest, most appalling, excruciating, so-called "music" experience of my life. Do we really need opening acts for the reading of literature? Do we really need *this* kind of opening act? It's a reading, not a rock concert. (Listen to me; I sound like such an old lady.)


After the reading--which was brilliant--I went to an Irish pub and had a chocolate martini. An Irish band was playing live (*so* much better than that circus punk thing). Outside the window it began to snow--big, fat, fluffy flakes descending gently. It was magic.


In the park across the street there was an ice sculpture contest in progress. I walked around at midnight and the next afternoon watching the artists at work. There was a Chinese dragon, a wild horse, Max and the monster from the Wild Things, Einstein's brain, aliens, and so much more. I loved it.


I spent 2 hours in the Chicago Museum of Art before I realized that the reason it all looked so familiar was because it was featured in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. ;-)


On my last day in Chicago, I walked all the way from Grant Park to Navy Pier along Lake Michigan in 26 degree weather. I had to wrap my scarf around my head and face to keep my nose and ears from freezing. When I stood out on the end of the pier, the clouds opened up and cast murky sunbeams down on the skyline of Chicago. I ate a Chicago style hotdog with the best fries in the world.


On my first night in Chicago, I ate Chicago style pizza with a bunch of poets and out-"nerded" everyone at the table. Someone in the group had said we were all a bunch of nerds, and we were laughing and each one of us was insisting we were the nerdiest. And then I said, "No, I'm sure I can out-nerd anyone here. I've had Star Wars memorized since the 6th grade." So the guy sitting next to me says, "Okay, then, what's the first line?" Without missing a beat, I replied in my best C-3Po voice, "They've shut down the main reactor. We'll be destroyed for sure!" The table fell out. It was brilliant.


The saddest bit about all this is that I took loads of pictures, and then lost the chip a few weeks later because I'm such a ding-a-ling. So now the only pictures I have left are the memories. Sigh.






99 Days til the Burn