I went to the Animal Fair . . .
I just returned, in fact, from the AWP 2010 Conference, the largest gathering of writers and their marketing apparatus held annually in the
US, this year in
Denver,
CO. 7700 writers attended, and 500 sold-out book tables at the book fair fit in one hall.
Denver has space, is my motto. Other than the free drink line at the opening of each evening’s dance, access to the Hyatt’s lobby bar stacked four writers deep, and the dance floor on the event’s last night,
Denver absorbed us in a wide-west embrace. First ride: the high speed luggage shuttle at Denver International airport. With the blast of a country electric guitar riff and a warning, “Hold on,” I was off.
. . . the birds and the beasts were there . . .As usual. That’s the chief reason to go, to make contact with the literary wildlife. The first day of the event becomes a weird sort of two-step. You have a schedule in hand of round-the-clock panel discussions and readings you’d like to attend, presses you’d like to check out and publishers to greet, but every 10 paces you encounter some friendly someone you haven’t seen since the last event attended. These acquaintances accumulate over the years. I think
Denver is the 7th AWP conference I’ve gone to this millennium. I have the growing sensation that everyone looks familiar. Is this what happens to writers, we all begin to look similar, like people and their dogs? If so, I hope there are at least genre differences. But besides transcontinental friends, I’m paying the big bucks to see publishers, editors and writing program directors, each in their cage, making us smile as they hand out attention, favors and hope.
. . .
the big baboon by the light of the moon . . . A lot of folks go for the big names in the trade, this year’s keynote Michael Chabon. I guess they add what they have, the sparkle, the dreamed-of accomplishment, a certain legitimacy to our enterprise. However, unless the writer is a personal hero if not friend, I tend to hang with the monkeys. I did make a point to attend Robert Hass’ reading held the last evening sponsored by the
Academy of American Poets. “This convention is so strange,” he said, speaking for me at least. “Schmoozing in hotel lobbies is the exact opposite of what we do on our own when we’re working.” Which is why we do it, I think.
. . . was combing his auburn hair. Lots of hair combing going on. I certainly combed mine, though I’m not sure to what avail. Everyone was looking good whether in fine writer stylin’ or in a purposefully trashy, down-and-out writer way. Which I guess is a sort of style. Shiny wares at the book fair were also on display, gorgeous covers in numbers that belie doleful predictions as to the future of the book. At least for now. And as at any fair, the line between performers and audience grows as thin as the tightrope we balance on.
Oh, the monkey he got drunk . . . Hey, that’s what monkeys at AWP do. Apparently.
. . .
and fell on the elephant’s trunk . . .What happens in
Denver, stays in
Denver.
. . .and what became of the monk? I ate late Sunday morningcrepes with fellow poets Mary Donnelly and Maggie Paul, enjoyed a leisurely stroll down the wide open spaces of the 16th Street Mall, stuffed acquired books, journals, fliers, business cards, posters, geegaws and guidelines into my suitcase, the dirty clothes into my backpack, said farewell to Poetry Flash editors Joyce Jenkins and Richard Silberg enjoying quiet coffee in the otherwise-empty hotel lobby, and was hearing the warning blast of country guitar in the airport shuttle, holding on for dear life, before I knew it.
Sally Ashton is editor-in-chief of the DMQ Review. She is the author of two recent releases, Her Name Is Juanita and Some Odd Afternoon. She teaches at San José State University.
