I attended AWP 2017 in Washington D.C. this February (which feels like a year ago already), and there is always so much to do that I find myself at a kind of hairpin corner -- I'm inspired to write much more than normal but have even less time than usual to do so.
The piece that follows is a collection of things I saw in passing or experienced momentarily during my rushing around at AWP that inspired me in some way. I jotted down crude remembrances in my hotel room, and have polished them up quickly, here:
The Unfinished Stories of AWP 2017
1.
The escalator is full of people in coats and scarves, carrying matching bags. On the one going down, a blonde woman leans into the man facing her, the man a step below her, creating a curtain with her curls. They kiss. He says, “Can I tell you something that’s really true?”
2.
A group wearing light blue lanyards sit in the lobby of the fancy Marquis. Their foe leather and colorfully printed cloth seats cushion their anxious bodies. The noise of the crowd cuddles them, too, so that their mouths move without sound. For just a moment, the man in the center's voice breaks through the din --“It’s like she thinks she's the worst writer in the world.” They all laugh as the drone of the crowd swallows them again.
3.
Before the panelist's sentence is finished, the woman is inspired. She fumbles as she gathers her things, rushing away from the standing-room-only event on how to get published.
4.
A beaded black necklace, like a rosary stripped of its holiness, lay twisted and abandoned on top of the toilet paper dispenser.
5.
Tall with a delicate voice and a round, baby face, he curses. “Now, where the hell did I put my wallet?” He shuffles through his bag and coat, then chats with the woman behind him about how he forgot his badge the day before and had to walk all the way back to his hotel in the cold. Before the wallet is found, he is swept up in more conversations with more strangers. Another item forgotten.
6.
The only thing unique about her is her too large hood -- and her genuine smile. Otherwise, she is just another straggler, out too late on the too cold D.C. streets. We pass quickly in the darkening city, and just as her wide mouth is level with my ear, she says, “It really is sad though,” her words still snug within that grin.
7.
Slam Poetry. A duet. A quick line: "I met Joy Harjo in an elevator." Then a squeal. And the poem rambles on. In earnest, I wonder if it was anywhere near the 13th floor.
8.
For days I've been arriving late. Now, early, I can't get in. The only real thing separating the growing crowd and the heavy, closed doors of the book fair, is a slim, dark man in a red jacket. His voice is loud. His demeanor pleasant. With a wave of his hand and a firm smile he keeps us all at bay. When I pass him I tell him something like, good day, or you're really good at this, but what I really mean is, I see you, I hear you, I appreciate you, and I'll remember you.
9.
My car idles as I wait to turn out of the massive, concrete garage. My seats smell of burnt Oreos. The hot chocolate I spilled the morning of my arrival, days ago, as I rushed to gather my bags, in such a hurry to begin.
The piece that follows is a collection of things I saw in passing or experienced momentarily during my rushing around at AWP that inspired me in some way. I jotted down crude remembrances in my hotel room, and have polished them up quickly, here:
The Unfinished Stories of AWP 2017
1.
The escalator is full of people in coats and scarves, carrying matching bags. On the one going down, a blonde woman leans into the man facing her, the man a step below her, creating a curtain with her curls. They kiss. He says, “Can I tell you something that’s really true?”
2.
A group wearing light blue lanyards sit in the lobby of the fancy Marquis. Their foe leather and colorfully printed cloth seats cushion their anxious bodies. The noise of the crowd cuddles them, too, so that their mouths move without sound. For just a moment, the man in the center's voice breaks through the din --“It’s like she thinks she's the worst writer in the world.” They all laugh as the drone of the crowd swallows them again.
3.
Before the panelist's sentence is finished, the woman is inspired. She fumbles as she gathers her things, rushing away from the standing-room-only event on how to get published.
4.
A beaded black necklace, like a rosary stripped of its holiness, lay twisted and abandoned on top of the toilet paper dispenser.
5.
Tall with a delicate voice and a round, baby face, he curses. “Now, where the hell did I put my wallet?” He shuffles through his bag and coat, then chats with the woman behind him about how he forgot his badge the day before and had to walk all the way back to his hotel in the cold. Before the wallet is found, he is swept up in more conversations with more strangers. Another item forgotten.
6.
The only thing unique about her is her too large hood -- and her genuine smile. Otherwise, she is just another straggler, out too late on the too cold D.C. streets. We pass quickly in the darkening city, and just as her wide mouth is level with my ear, she says, “It really is sad though,” her words still snug within that grin.
7.
Slam Poetry. A duet. A quick line: "I met Joy Harjo in an elevator." Then a squeal. And the poem rambles on. In earnest, I wonder if it was anywhere near the 13th floor.
8.
For days I've been arriving late. Now, early, I can't get in. The only real thing separating the growing crowd and the heavy, closed doors of the book fair, is a slim, dark man in a red jacket. His voice is loud. His demeanor pleasant. With a wave of his hand and a firm smile he keeps us all at bay. When I pass him I tell him something like, good day, or you're really good at this, but what I really mean is, I see you, I hear you, I appreciate you, and I'll remember you.
9.
My car idles as I wait to turn out of the massive, concrete garage. My seats smell of burnt Oreos. The hot chocolate I spilled the morning of my arrival, days ago, as I rushed to gather my bags, in such a hurry to begin.
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