The Awkward World

I hope you laughed at that title, because it only gets worse from here.

I went to the American Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) conference in downtown Chicago with Gabriella (!) this past weekend, and learned many, many things. A few are as follows:

• Randall Kenan got a shout-out in the first panel I attended. Apparently, my intermediate fiction teacher is the world’s foremost authority on magical realism. Gaby and I were excited.

• There are so many university and small presses out there. I had no idea.  This might be the direction I need for publication, rather than getting an agent and a big press. Of course, I need a book first…

• From the historical fiction conference: Did you know that J.P. Morgan spent most of his fortune trying to communicate with Martians who could tell his future? Or that Nicola Tesla, of all freakin people, tried to bleed him out of the rest of it?

• Art Spiegelman (Maus, In the Shadow of No Towers, Breakdowns, and much, much more) was the keynote speaker, and he gave a mind-blowing lecture on comic books (he hates the term “graphic novels”) and the subversive theory behind everything from Mad magazine to Alan Moore. It was amazing. If you haven’t read Maus, go read it now, and bring some tissues.

• Gregory Maguire is an interesting guy, and he wrote Wicked with the intention of creating a sort of fantasy Gone With the Wind, a purposely dense, difficult ensemble epic. Also, when he signs autographs, he writes “Best Witches!” Ha!

• I also randomly met Audrey Niffenegger (The Time Traveler’s Wife), who was confused by how excited I was to meet her. She teaches at Columbia here in Chicago.

• I met Steve Almond (Candyfreak, The Evil B.B. Chow) too, and talked to him about music for about 20 minutes. I attended his panel the next day too and brought him a mix tape and two stories. And he emailed me back! He liked “Adventurous Dogs”! Go buy his new book of essays, (Not That You Asked).

• I learned a lot about writing young adult fiction, and perhaps most importantly that it’s one of the last genres where you’re still encouraged to take risks. “Edgy” fiction has been beaten into the ground almost everywhere else. But R.A. Nelson was talking about his award-winning, bestselling YA book (Teach Me) about a young girl having an affair with her much older teacher, so I guess it’s not all abstinence vampires out there.

• In fact, it’s disingenuous to exclude sex from YA. You’re writing from the perspective of a young adult. Young adults are thinking about sex. They just are. I’m thinking about it right now.

• A nice working definition of good nonfiction: “a radically subjective version of true events.” (courtesy of Steve Almond, natch)

• Gonna write some flash fiction. One of them will be called “Romero and Juliet,” and it will be a zombie love story. Another will be “Waiting on Godot,” and it will be about Samuel Beckett’s little-known dine-and-dash habit.

But my best story, the one I might turn into an actual short story, is about trying to meet the poet Tony Hoagland (What Narcissism Means to Me). Before I begin, I would like to point out that this is 100% true. And I’m sure that under better circumstances Tony Hoagland would be a really nice guy. I, on the other hand, will probably always be a little bit of an asshole for this.

I Try to Meet Tony Hoagland

I nearly pooped my pants when I found out that Hoagland was going to be reading at the conference. He’s been one of my favorite poets for years (you may remember that I posted his poem “Reasons to Survive November” a few months back), a wry, cynical humorist, and consummate silly-looking man (see above photo). It was going to be awesome. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought What Narcissism Means to Me — which I had previously read but not owned — and arrived at the reading 15 minutes early to catch him before he was busy. The reading, I should point out, was called “A Tribute to Jason Shinder,” whoever he is. While I waited, I bent and folded the book to make it look old and loved.

I spotted Tony Hoagland, and politely waited for him to set his papers down at the podium and finish shaking hands with and talking to the other panelists. I want to emphasize that I was being polite. I approached him, as one does, and asked him to sign my book. He gave me a look which is difficult to describe. It was a combination of disgust and befuddlement. “I’ll sign it after,” he said.

Which is a perfectly reasonable request. That’s cool. I sat down. He just sat up there, not really doing anything. But fine. If he wants to wait, I’ll wait. I folded my book some more.

The reading started, and I realized with horror who Jason Shinder is — was. He was Tony Hoagland’s best freaking friend, a founding member of the AWP and creator of the YMCA Young Writers Thing, and he just died, at 52, of fucking lymphoma.

Tony (we’re on a first name basis by now) and the others read some of Jason’s poems. Tony has to stop several times to keep from crying. It’s a memorial service. I’m crashing a goddamn memorial service. To make matters worse, the conference next door is the Slam Poetry Finals. They’re shouting, applauding, jumping, and, from the sound of it, fornicating. The Shinder panelists grow more and more irritated. They send someone over to tell them to quiet down. All we hear is the messenger getting booed out of the room.

I wish I were a good enough writer to describe what it felt like to be in that room. There’s a certain breed of awkwardness, so rare and exquisite, which, if only for a moment, makes the rest of the world disappear. There was no writer’s conference. There was no Chicago, no such thing as poetry, or art, or human life; there is just Tony Hoagland hating me to death, over muffled rapping next door.

I left. I just couldn’t take it. I thought I should give the slam poetry thing a chance, and it was awful. And I like slam poetry. This wasn’t a panel like most of the other conferences, but an open mic, and it at least made me feel a lot better about my own writing. I couldn’t concentrate though, because I couldn’t stop thinking about the fat guy sitting in front of me wearing a fork in his hatband. He was probably about my age, with one of those skeezy mustaches and goatees, and I could not have despised him more.

Just look at that guy. There’s no story behind that fork. It’s not like it was his grandmother’s heirloom and on her deathbed she told him to stick it in his hat in her memory. It’s just a fork, and it’s there because he thinks it makes him look quirky and eccentric. He wants me to think, What a weird, interesting guy, flouting social conventions like that. This guy doesn’t conform to the oppressive social norms forced upon us artist types, like the convention of not wearing silverware like a fucking asshole. And then he gets up to read — nay, recite! It’s memorized! And it’s called “Metaphorgasm”!

I leave that room too. I go back to the Shinder room and grab a spot by the exit. The readings end, and everyone in the audience — which was packed, by the way — gets up to hug the panelists. They all knew this guy. Everyone in that room except me knew him. Maybe I’ll just apologize to Tony Hoagland as he’s on his way out. It was an honest misunderstanding after all.

Here comes Forkhat, and he has the same book. Three other people, all with the same book of poetry that I’m holding, march in after the reading is over, shove their way to the front of the room, and get Tony Hoagland’s autograph. And you know what? I’m going to do that too. I’m no better than Forkhat, not really. And I’ve endured too much to turn back now.

I walk to the front and stand in Tony Hoagland’s line of vision. I politely — politely! — wait until he isn’t talking to anyone, and I approach him and ask him to sign my book.

“You know,” he says, “this was a Jason Shinder reading.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It was a great reading. But I’m a really big fan, and I doubt I’ll ever get a chance to meet you again. Can you please just sign it?”

He glares at me, but he takes the book and my pen. Somebody hugs him from behind.

Tony!

Somebody! (I forget the lady’s name)

It’s been so long!

I know!

I was so broken up when I heard about Jason.

He was a great man.

And they talk, and I wait on them to finish talking. More people join the conversation. A regular salon. And then they just leave, with my book, and my nice pen, and I’m standing in front of a blown-up, black-and-white portrait of Jason Shinder, and I am very confused.

“You are full of poetry,” an old woman says to me. She hands me a card that says “POETIC LICENSE!!!!”

I tell her thanks, and I run, and if I have to break his hand off and sign it myself, I will get that book back.

Epilogue

I told this story to Erin the other day, and she says she knew Jason Shinder, and he was kind of a douche. I feel a little better now.

Bon Iver – Blood Bank