Can be found here at Jacket Copy, the LA Times book blog.
Other news:
- a draft beer at the Hilton will run you $9.75.
- Michael Martone is very very funny. If you think alliterative jokes about Jonathan Franzen are funny (and listening to Martone, I did).
- Martin Amis is on tonight, but I think I’ll pass.
- Last night, I passed on Jonathan Safran Foer.
- But Post Road’s party at the Mercury Lounge was a success, ’80s pop soundtrack and all.
- One Story’s party, around the corner and one flight up, was a rip-rip-rip-riproaring success.
But I didn’t bring the cable for my digital camera, so you’ll have to wait.
Last year I often felt lost and confused at AWP. This year I might be confused, but when I got lost, I knew enough to follow Johnny Temple, who knew how to get to his panel. I happened upon Ron Hogan, who was running home to post on Galleycat. Gavin Grant was easy to find — despite the fact that the book fair is on multiple floors — he was, predictably, at the Small Beer Press table. I caught the last few moments of Dan Wicket’s blog panel, which would have been fine if the slightly unhinged woman in the audience had stopped babbling about blog carnivals.
I saw Lydia Davis read — but had been hoping for a conversation between her and fellow panelists Percival Everett, Francine Prose and Jennifer Egan, so ducked out. Generally I don’t enjoy readings at conferences, since it seems like such a great chance to let smart interesting people — these writers — talk to each other, maybe exchange ideas. But I’ll still try them from time to time — look for me at the One Story reading today. John Hodgman is on the bill! John KELLOGG Hodgman. Long lost relative? Perhaps I will finally find out.
I stuck my head in to see Joyce Carol Oates, who said “I think of myself as just transparent, I’m just a class of water, I’m nothing, I’m not here.” During her 75 minute presentation, I understand, she revised a short story, wrote a piece for Bookforum, gave notes on two Princeton students’ manuscripts and finished a novella.
To capture the seriously bad fashion of AWP, we employed a decoy maneuver. Someone (Christopher Rowe, Gwenda Bond, Gavin Grant, Jed Berry or me) would pose near the fashion plate. Picture snapped. Christopher poses with Walter Mosley, who treads the fine line between fashion forward and fashion disaster. Click on the pic to scroll through the set on Flickr.
Hello from Lynchburg!
My AWP wrap up is coming, probably after I get home.
Until then: Jeff VanderMeer, Gwenda Bond, and Dr. Write.
After Gwenda and Christopher and Jed and Gavin and Kelly stayed up late with me Thursday night and the helicopters began early, my AWP day started at noon. Virtually Infinite: The Broad Reach and Vast Potential of the Online Literary Journal — great title, panel not so much. The guy who had the most interesting things to say got to speak the least. You can listen to it if you like, tho — podcast here.
On to the floor, where again my brain short-circuited after just a few stops. There are many cool literary magazines and university presses and MFA programs and other exciting writing ventures and it gets overwhelming visiting just a handful. I did manage to find the NEA booth to congratulate David Kipen on his great blog. Imagining Zora Neale Hurston and Hemmingway sharing a ride up from Florida? Priceless.
Then I went to the prizewinners reading. Not a panel: five guys reading their stuff. Kevin Moffett, whose Pittsburgh reading I missed because my car slid sideways across the ice-covered streets, was particularly excellent.
I had this crazy idea that the Marketing Indie Lit panel/discussion was going to be excellent, too. I was wrong. Mainly it focused on direct marketing (building lists, surveying your audience) and pushing your authors. But it didn’t ever touch on the basic elements of a marketing plan, on whether indie publishers have any advantages they can leverage, or what budget ranges work or don’t. I’d say the best takeaway was the recommendation to publishers developing relationships with independent bookstores — to sell your press rather than individual books.
John Fucking Barth! Michael Fucking Martone! Big fucking crowd! So far this prevails as the gold star event of the conference. Michael Martone was very funny, which for some reason I hadn’t expected. And so was John Barth — as he approached the mic, he turned to the 20-foot-high banner hanging behing him, took out a pen, and circled a misspelling (I think it was “litery” for “literary”). Readings were great. Just ask any of the other 800 or so people who were there.
Also of note: by all accounts, Robert Owen Butler’s session was intense; I’m not the only fan who found and cornered Steve Erickson.
Sometimes, during a particularly unengaging panel, I’ll find myself staring at the shiny things on the ceiling. All this and more in my first batch of photos from AWP.
While Gwenda was responsibly blogging about the bus that drove off the overpass right next to our hotel, I was eating grits. Soon all of us remaining at the Days Inn are heading back to AWP, freeway permitting.
Meanwhile, the Los Angeles Times has announced the nominees for its book awards. Cool list. Must fly.
The literary magazine one story is hosting an air hockey tournament of litmags and independent presses. It’ll be going on each day of the conference; right about now Tin House is facing off against Small Beer.
Today I went to two panels, neither of which knocked my socks off. That’s the nature of these things: a couple panels will be great. Most will not. So I’ll spare you the rant about the really lame panelist until I have something nice to say.
Late this afternoon, Francine Prose will talk with Walter Mosley about writing. Part of me wants to go. Part of me fears it’ll be so gradschool-y I’ll want to poke my eyes out with a swizzle stick. Which part will win?
Last time I went to a convention in Atlanta it was at a meeting of foundation staffers. So I dressed in my best banker-like monkeysuits, stayed at a tony downtown hotel, and had the most terrible-yet-expensive dinner of my life at a decades-old restaurant with hostesses in ill-fitting antebellum gowns.
This time, for the AWP Conference, I will do none of those things. My hotel is cheap and even has free wifi and a minifridge. I might bring a t-shirt with a monkey on it, but that’s as close as I’m getting to a monkeysuit. I’ll be wearing skirts and sunblock, because I’m going to pretend Atlanta is a tropical paradise.
I know one fellow Pitt grad student who’s going. Are you?
