AWP Conference a networking-free zone

You know you had a good conference when it’s still on your mind two weeks later. And I did enjoy the AWP Conference, which took place Feb. 8-11 in Washington, D.C.

I was just out of graduate school when I went to my first Association of Writers and Writing Programs Conference in Kansas City way back in 2000. I was also the managing editor of a literary journal, and I recall a handful of people asking for my business card, which shouldn’t have surprised me—that’s a thing people do at conferences. The next year, 2001, the conference was in Palm Springs, and I’d ordered a box of a thousand business cards, which seemed like plenty.

It was plenty. I gave away three cards, and I practically had to beg people to take them. I think I still have them in a drawer, and they’re super useful for those times when I need to pass myself off as the managing editor of Mid-American Review.

I’d been to professional conferences before AWP, and business cards are a legitimate thing—the kind of thing you want to be sure to pack. But AWP isn’t really a business card kind of venue. It’s actually kind of … huggy.

Someone who has never been to AWP may reasonably go and expect an ordinary conference, and ordinary conferences involve networking. But networking works a little differently among writers. We network best by reading each other’s work, and we build connections by reviewing and recommending writers, or by dozens of other instances of interaction based upon our art.

A person new to the culture may well go to this annual conference and expect the kinds of networking opportunities we would enjoy at a meeting of solar panel salespeople or shoe manufacturers or IT consultants. In the community of novice writers, there is a pervasive sense that writers get ahead through the virtue of their connections.

I won’t go so far as to claim that this isn’t true; I’ve had work solicited for journals or anthologies by friends, and it’s the people I know who tend to invite me for a reading. But I don’t think connections get us published; it’s the strength of the work that does that, perhaps in conjunction with a writer’s reputation. An editor may well recognize that a writer would add an element of diversity to the mix, or an editor may know that I fit into a demographic they seek. I’m not just Karen Craigo; I’m a middle-aged Midwestern woman who writes poems about motherhood. I was recently reviewed and interviewed by an acquaintance for Literary Mama because I fit the bill of a mom who writes. I would hope my name might come to mind if someone wanted to publish an anthology of Missouri or Ohio or Midwestern writers, or one for women over forty. These things happen.

But I’ve been writing and publishing for a long time. I can attest that the typical route to publication is through writing diligently, revising mercilessly, and submitting endlessly. Writers make connections along the way—the same editors reject us multiple times, or maybe ultimately publish us; we frequently find the same names alongside ours in tables of contents; we show up at the same festivals and readings and, yes, conferences. As in any field, we writers gradually get to know one another.

I went to my first AWP Conference with some flawed ideas about networking and making important connections. Seventeen years later, I found I had almost too many connections, to the extent that I hid out in my hotel room about half the time. But here are a few good ways to build relationships within a huge gathering of writers: Buy other people’s books. Have the writers sign them. Say hello to editors and pick up guidelines and sample issues. And get the most out of panels and readings.

After a short time, it becomes apparent how small the literary world really is. In seventeen years, you’ll have more hugs than you can handle—no business card required.

AWP Conference a smorgasbord

The AWP Conference ended over a week ago, and I actually went this year, after five years of missing out on the fun. In many ways, I think I’m still recovering.

For those not in the know, AWP stands, improbably, for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs. It’s a huge annual event, and the highlight for me is always the book fair, with its free pens and books I’d need several lifetimes to read.

I guess I’ve changed in my years away. I used to be on the go from early morning until earlier morning, setting up to open the book fair and then attending panels and readings, going out to eat, and drinking like a fish until the wee hours.

This conference was markedly different for me. One of the glorious differences was that I actually had a full-length collection to sign—No More Milk, which I read from at an off-site event and signed at the Sundress table.

Also, I’m no longer in charge of a literary journal or press, although I have some editorial roles here and there, so I wasn’t tethered to a book fair table. That was a mixed blessing. Have a fixed place to be is rather nice at AWP; without this, there’s a whole lot of wandering around with no place to put your stuff. (I was able to stash my gear at my partner’s table, but I could come and go as I pleased.)

I don’t really believe in astrology, but I’m an Aquarius, and the list of Aquarian character traits fits me to a T. I think it’s the water-bearer in me that struggles in settings like the AWP Conference. An Aquarius is generally seen as pretty vivacious—the life of the party—but despite this, astrologers say, we can also be aloof, and we value our alone time.

And that’s AWP for me. Although something like 13,000 people attended this year’s conference, I seemed to know every third person, at least by name—and not because they were famous, but because I’d mucked around in a lot of submission piles and social media posts.

Additionally, I saw a couple hundred people who, in other circumstances, I would have wanted to sit down with over breakfast/lunch/dinner/drinks. Obviously, I fan-girled over some writers I adore, and I also connected with some loved ones who live in the Washington area, and I’m so glad I did. But at the conference itself, there were former students with new books to celebrate; there were mentors; there were treasured Facebook friends I’d never met in person, and people who subscribe to this blog, and people I’d enjoyed talking to at conferences. There were even, this time, some people I didn’t know but who had read and enjoyed my book, and I would have loved to get to know them better, if only to see what kind of person likes my kind of person.

When confronted with most of my favorite people in one place, my initial reaction is pleasure—it’s like a buffet with all of my favorite foods, even though those foods share only the context of me, the buffet guest—but then, very quickly, the variety becomes a source of stress, exactly like being in an unfamiliar restaurant with a too-big menu. (Am I unusual in my preference for small menus, where the chef has selected a few items I might enjoy choosing from?)

My reaction to this smorgasbord used to be different—I’d dig right in with gusto. But this year I approached it with some trepidation, with the equivalent action of filling a single plate with tiny, discrete spoonfuls, each barely a bite, none of the elements touching or overlapping.

I spent much of the conference in my hotel room, and it was still overwhelming.

In past years, my life was different. Although I was bookless, I was not friendless—I worked in a setting that included lots of fun peers and a shared sense of purpose. This year I went to the conference as an adjunct, albeit an adjunct with a book, and I found that going from very solitary days to a hug every ten minutes was a little jarring.

Mind you, I prefer the hugs. But still. Jarring.

I will say this—being among all of those writers and walking away with so many exciting new titles was a treat, and as someone who exists outside of a real-life writing community, the experience was a lovely reminder of how writers are connected by their experience, and how readers and writers are connected on the page.

So thousands of writers reminded me that I’m not alone. And the message got through. It continues to stick. And here I am, writing right now.

I’d say I owe AWP my gratitude, and my promise to see everyone again next year.