AWP Recap

Because I don’t have a million other things to do…but whatever. I might want to remember this in a year or two. It was a good week.

Victoria and I went a day early to visit Myfanwy Collins and her family. And we got to meet Snap, their new dog! She’s a very good dog. We had dinner at a Portugese place. I ate a nearly-one-pound steak. It was delicious, not sweet and not cold.
We had no trouble getting the Engine Books table set up in the bookfair on Wednesday. Victoria’s plans worked. We shipped some books to Myf’s house (thanks again!) and packed a hardshell suitcase with table stuff (book stands, banners, etc.). Except for the mile-plus walk inside the parking garage, attached mall, and convention center, which gave us the worst Popeye arms ever after dragging the suitcases and carrying the boxes, it actually went rather smoothly.
Our hotel experience this time was enlivened by a randy couple next door. You’re back in the room temporarily between the end of the conference and the start of the night. You just want a moment or two to catch your breath, maybe hear yourself think. But all you hear is their fucking noises.
So many writers stopped by the EB table to introduce themselves. I missed several of them when I was off getting us lunch—or, on Friday, when my 30-minute lunch somehow became a two-plus hour ordeal that made Victoria nearly fire me—but many of them made a second effort to say hello, including Steven Schwartz and Scott Nadelson. I really appreciated seeing other editors who were mostly confined to their own bookfair tables, such as Michael Nye and Matt Bell. 
Our friends at Booth were just one row away, so I got to see my friends Bryan Furuness and Rob Stapleton. The first thing Rob said: “You look like a frat boy.” Thanks, Rob. It’s called J. Crew, motherfucker. Look into it.
For the first time ever, I participated in a panel I did not coordinate or propose. My friend Jared Yates Sexton (friends call him “Jared Sexton”) wanted to do something, but I was tired of herding cats. He asked if I had ideas. I said he should put together a group of writers with debut story collections and have them read and talk about the process of getting their books published. We talked about a few people we could invite. I had just visited Eugene Cross in Chicago, and I loved his book, Fires of Our Choosing. Jared suggested Jensen Beach, who also had a book forthcoming. All guys, so I jokingly said, “Call it ‘All the Young Dudes: Something Something,’” and AWP apparently didn’t think it was a problem.
Later, a friend told me about some kind of online flareup/Facebook bitch session regarding our panel—the title, its inherent dude-ness, how we insulted the memory of Mott the Hoople or something. Those people can eat a big bowl of dicks.
I was sick as hell and my throat tightened up during my reading. I had to ask for water in what Jared took to calling my “Marco Rubio moment.”
Then I became THAT GUY during the Q&A session: Doctor Doom (and Gloom). I felt bad about that, but several people from the audience found me in the bookfair later and thanked me for being honest. And funny, they said. Funny how? Am I a clown? Do I amuse you?
On Thursday night, we had drinks with Robin Black and Jane Neathery Cutler, plus two of their friends. Robin’s great to talk to about this writing life stuff. We also ate at the bar, so lunch came at 6:30. Then we all went our separate ways, which meant Victoria and I had dinner at 7:30. Yes, AWP will fuck up your clock.
On Friday, I wanted a normal-time lunch, but my 30 minutes away turned into nearly two and a half hours because (1) I ran into Bryan Furuness, and (2) we bumped into Robin and Jane. We talked for 45 minutes in the bookfair. Then Bryan and I went to lunch, but the food court lines in the mall were too long, so we left the convention center for a real restaurant. Victoria nearly fired me even though I brought her a BLT with avocado.
We went to a fancy literary party that night. I’m too cool to blab about it, but not too cool to say it was the coolest thing we did all week. Cool? At night’s end, I ordered Mexican food online and had it delivered to the hotel. Do we not live in an amazing time?
On Saturday night, we had crêpes. And salad! Like, with actual vegetables. And wine. And then Andrew Roe said he wanted to buy us a drink, so we braved the conference hotel bar. When Andy didn’t show, we got some more wine and sat our asses down. Lo and behold, Andy arrived. Somehow we talked for almost three hours. We stayed up too late. Far too late. Andrew’s novel comes out next year from Algonquin. 
I didn’t buy lots of books, but Meakin Armstrong was selling books by authors he’s published in Guernica. Pretty cool. So I bought Jamie Quatro’s collection and a book of stories by Peter Stamm. Later I bought the new one from Matthew Salesses, who probably made lots of sales-ses by carrying around a Square for credit cards. Scott Nadelson gave me his book because I reviewed his last one for The Collagist (it’s one of the blurbs inside this book, which is a first for me).
Writers I was glad to meet: Everyone who came to find me at the Engine Books table, Alix Ohlin, Lauren Groff, Eleanor Henderson (who was just waiting to say hello to Alix and Lauren, like me), and freakin’ Walter Mosley, who I bumped into (okay, briefly stalked, once I saw him) at the bookfair.
Writers I was sad to miss: Holly Goddard Jones and Laura van den Berg, who were on the same panel—but at the same time as mine. And Debra Monroe, who stopped by the EB table twice and I still didn’t get to meet her in person.
Writers I saw at the airport, however far away they may have been: Michael Martone, Lee Martin, Connie Voisine (!), Matt Batt (who also came to say hi at the EB table), Jane Neathery Cutler, and probably a few more. By then, I was getting spacey like Kevin.
On the flight home to Indianapolis, I saw one writer (I happen to know) carrying a manuscript. The dude across the aisle was annotating a copy of Drown. A woman two rows ahead carried an issue of Mid-American Review I recognized because it has a review of Naked Summer inside. And another woman was reading the NYTRB. God, how I wish this were an accurate representation of the Indianapolis citizenry. (I’m not slagging on Indiana; unlike some writers in the state, I don’t think we need to be “saved” from ourselves. But it would be cool if half of the people in Indy read Junot Diaz and Mid-American Review.)
Then we came home to our dog and cats! And to a bunch of buzzkill grading.