At AWP Jenny and I got up at 4:30 every day, except the last day when we stayed up later the night before (9:30!!!!!) and slept in until 5:30. What slackers.
How do you AWP? I usually go to a couple of panels. I always walk out on at least one panel. I usually go to at least one reading of the super shits. And I hang out with friends and read writing to them and get drunk often and cruise the book fair to connect connect then the last day I feel so shitty I can barely lift my head.
This AWP I went to a couple of panels. I walked out on a panel. I went to my reading, The New Rivers Press reading, went on one cruise of the book fair and met a couple of women editors, sorry I don't know your names, that I had never met in the flesh. Got to hug T.A. And other folks. Talked with Bill and Pam. Gave flash to a couple of other folks. Hung out with Jenny whom I love with a big part of my tiny heart. We worked on her brilliant book of poems. We read work to each other. I started a new novel. We got room service twice and ate at the hotel every day. And laughed. And laughed. And couldn't stop laughing. It was a good AWP.
I fucking hate AWP. I can't wait till next year in LA. But only if Jenny goes with me.
Did start a novel. Want to follow it through just bear down. But I'm already doubting myself. And overwhelmed with the idea of it. That thing were it feels like a snap oh yeah I'll be done in six weeks that thing that turns into an inward swallowing groan oh no this will take work work real work no easy here maybe I should sprint out of here.
And I know what to do about the "essay" collection. Read it again, almost all of it. The fixes are very clear. Obvious edits. All I have to do is flatten the tone of the newer essays that are essays straight up. And take out every bit of editorilazing. Cut every bit of tedon away. And breathe.
Bah. That's still two projects. My new lessons--
It doesn't matter how expertly crafted the book is if no one wants to read it.
Focus. Pick one thing and do it. Finish it. This used to come naturally to me. Now I am pulled between three genres. Maybe I should get rid of one and just do what I've always thought would be the right thing to do. Prose. Poetry. BOOM! Fuck this what is true what is truth big T what is emotional truth.
Also do not spend too much time blogging and face booking and twittering thumbing surfing TV Internet toenails.
Need to run. Must lunch elegant in tall heels. Must shop exclusive spend three thousand dollars. At least. New shoes. New purses. The chair. Must figure still the goddamned chair. Oops. GD chair. Must sensitive the tongue. Tune it Lord.