AWP Recovery

Two weeks after the fact, I finally managed to spend a day in my bathrobe, still hacking away (I caught Sully's AWP cold, and apparently, so did Martin and Tiffany), and add a little to this blog. I have to say that all of you have managed to capture quite a bit here, and one of the best things about this experience was that (in spite of my Mama Woo name), I could watch you all from a distance. I would see you taking notes during panels, or floating around the book fair. I would run into one of you in the alcove near the elevators. But aside from the occasionally cell-phone call (sometimes actually to ask if I'd like to join you for something or other) you were self-propelled!

This was my sixth AWP conference in a row. I went to my first one in Spring 2001, thanks to Kelly McQuain who organized a panel on "Creating a Tw0-Year College Writing Program." Interestingly enough, at that stage we didn't actually officially have a writing program at the time. Since then, I managed to either invent or insert myself into panels on everything from something called "Erotic, Neurotic, Psychotic: New Jewish Fiction" to "Rock, Paper, Scissors: Sharply Different Methods of Teaching Creative Writing to Underprepared Students" (this one was with colleagues from CCP: see this link to find out what we had to say: http://faculty.ccp.edu/dept/viewpoints/w07v8n2/intro.htm ).

But this one was clearly different. For one thing, it was twice the size. For another thing, the hotel rooms were twice as expensive. And, of course, I was bringing eight students.

I'll respond to their own posts as I see fit. But one thing I ought to mention is that, in spite of stafing the Two Year Caucus table, selling Writer/Teacher tee shirts, and learning (for the first time) to use a cell-phone, I did manage to get quite a bit from this conference. I actually shook the hand of my heroine, Cynthia Ozick.

No, I don't just like her because she looks like me.

After I heard her read part of an extraordinary story called "What will We Do About the Baby," I had to slip away to meet up with the other Woos for dinner. Afterwards, I had a debate with myself. I'd managed to get an invitation to a VIP party at the Hilton penthouse (a fellow two-year Caucus member was on the board and wanted to thank me for some work I'd done). The reception started at 10pm-- the same time as the open reading. I'd missed one of the slams, attended the other, and was pretty much determined not to miss the open reading, particularly since EVERYONE promised to read something, including Gwyn.

So I had to choose-- penthouse party with a stunning view of New York and classy free food and drink OR hearing the family Woo read. Those who know me will understand that I chose to be in two places at once.

Thus, I raced to the party, climbed the winding stair-case, looked at the pretty lights, made small-talk with the one person I knew there, and kept checking my watch. The place was like a set from a Carol Lombard movie, all white, with white couches. With the right set of people, it could have been a pretty wild scene (this wasn't the right set of people). I was trying to figure out how soon I could leave. Then I turned around, and unmistakably, there was Cynthia Ozick.

I felt all the blood rush to my head. Then, looking down (I'm 5'2. I think she's 5' even), I said, "Ms Ozick?"

"Cynthia," she replied. Her voice was beautifully modulated, and her eyes looked like ET's.

"I just want to tell you how much your work meant to me. Your story 'The Shawl', it's rhythms... it was a huge influence on my novel, Louisa."

"Mae Alcott?" she said, tilting her head slightly.

"Oh--- Oh-- Jo March is a heroine of mine. But alas, that's not what the novel is about..." I said, blathering for around fifteen more seconds attempting to describe the one book of mine she might have heard of before peetering out, and receding back towards the elevator.

Anyhow, then, I went down to the Open Reading. But that was another story.