I have been to many conferences. I have been sent to conferences for legal jobs, counting down the minutes in my head until I can reasonably look at my phone again. I have been to conferences that I helped organize, taking credit and blame for the fame of the keynote speaker or the lack of pastries during the coffee breaks. When I quit lawyering in 2019, I even went to a conference for nonfiction writers and journalists in which I participated in eight-minute networking sessions with editors, sessions where I was so nervous and felt like such a fraud that I wasn’t sure what was coming out my mouth. (Also, I had laryngitis, so could hardly get my voice above a whisper).
I had low expectations for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference, in part because I have not found conferences worthy of much in the way of expectations, and because the writers I follow on Twitter who had been to previous AWPs didn’t exactly have glowing reviews (though everyone agreed that it was nice to see old friends again). I worried about being intimidated by panelists who were more successful than me, I worried about spiraling into insecurity when I heard about the illustrious fellowships and residences and awards they all had.
So, I didn’t bring business cards or practice my handshake. I didn’t expect to sell myself or prove that I belonged. I expected to buy books, listen to some readings (particularly those from AND IF THAT MOCKINGBIRD DON’T SING, in which my story “Order Up” is included), and meet some of the people whom I only know as avatars on social media. Also, I expected to stay in a hotel by myself, get eight hours of sleep a night, and watch Netflix in the evenings.
I took the train. I did buy books (dozens). I did listen to readings (those from AITMDS, but also many more). I did meet authors that I only know from social media.
But guess what else I did! I met the editors and publishers who knew my work because they’ve included it in their journals or anthologies, people who I respect for their skills and writing and who actually knew my name and seemed happy to meet me! I met writers like me who have shyly stepped into this intimidating world of literature and constantly feel like they don’t deserve to be here, with whom I shared nachos and phone numbers and promises to prop one another up! I stood in a bar with a beer and listened to beautiful words written by people who were close to my age, not all gleaming youngsters fresh from their MFAs! And yes, I was intimidated when I went to a panel on book deals, but I was thrilled at another about the future of flash fiction, nearly crying at one about mothers writing rage and one in which neurodivergent read their pain.
Even though next year’s AWP is in Seattle, leagues away from me, I plan to attend, bringing medium-level expectations with me.