The Daily

Arts & Culture

Letter from Boston

March 11, 2013 | by

3-15-12_blank-name-tagSmoky circles formed outside the Hynes Convention Center, the Association of Writers & Writing Programs Conference and Bookfair’s central hub. The snow was light but constant. There was a consistently surprising disparity between what filled the sky and what accumulated on the ground. Cheap sunglasses doubled as ski goggles. A man in an orange wool hat aggressively bummed a cigarette while smoking a cigarette.

Across the street, in the shadow of John Mayer’s alma mater, a row of Back Bay sports bars pumped deep cuts off the American Pie 2 sound track. Inside one of them a man with pink cheeks argued with his friend over Ben Affleck’s filmography. He proclaimed Pearl Harbor to be Affleck’s best movie, then ordered another Ketel and Sprite.

Further down the bar, burlier regulars passed their snow-day or no-show shifts warily eyeing the influx of eyeglasses. One ate waffle fries with a fork. I remained neutral, drinking hard cider and picking at a dry turkey sandwich. Below us a panel talk on criticism was slowly convening in the basement. After filing the mustard from under my nails I descended the wet stairs and made a beeline for the couch, reserving a cushion with a makeshift hat-and-jacket scarecrow while I scrounged for more cider.

There is a form of déjà vu peculiar to AWP, to the mobs of vaguely familiar willowy blondes and bearded schlubs. There is also a particularly awkward and dispiriting form of loneliness that settles in the shoulders when faced with a room filled with social media connections, those digital acquaintances who remain strangers in the flesh. Of course one of the painfully ironic realities of a writing conference is the thousands of introverted attendees who travel great distances, get themselves to the city, out of their hotel room, into the bar basement, on the cusp of an encounter, only to divert eye contact at the last minute, feign a phone call or investigate the bottom of their pint glass.

Another painful reality of the “off-site” setting is the quixotic battle between the relative silence required for a literary event and the ever-present din of almost every last public gathering space in America. Proximity to alcohol is valued but it also means grumbling ice makers and chattering cash registers. As James Wood described an early assignment, the Pearl Harbor fan came down the stairs looking for the men’s room, each step squeakier and unsteadier than the last. Jokes and insights were swallowed up by the music blasting upstairs—Dashboard Confessional, Ozzy Osbourne, Kid Rock—and the clattering silverware and hissy spigots. One panelist, described by the moderator as a “force of nature,” was no match for the pure white noise of the lavatory’s handblower. On the giant television Mariano Rivera announced his retirement. I snuck across the street to the oceanic book fair.

Later, at a party hosted by a blogging platform, a man seemingly familiar with the bartenders (“April, how ’bout some ketchup, honey? There ya go”) ate what looked to be doughnut holes and brie. There was some confusion over what our name tags were worth at the bar. The guy next to me—Waldo glasses, lopsided grin, carefully curated stubble—nabbed the last free well drink. I left in a huff, secretly happy for the excuse.

Outside the snowflakes had grown fat and wet. The smokers huddled under a shallow awning. I recognized a supper club across the alley as the venue which hosted my step-grandmother’s book release party (a memoir of her second marriage) several years ago. I briefly entertained the idea of barging in there and trying to bluster my way into a free Scotch as karmic reparation for the name tag slight, but instead I ducked into the wind and made my way to the Park Street T entrance. I was experimenting with different ways of carrying my new tote bag. I finally bundled it up like a knife roll and tucked it under my arm.




  1. Scott Thompson | March 11, 2013 at 2:53 pm

    I take great comfort in knowing that AWP was full of introverts. The world is extroverted. It’s nice to find a place where we can all go and be lonely together.

  2. Lisa Andrews | March 11, 2013 at 2:56 pm

    “In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” I can’t remember who said that, but it’s an apt expression for the awkwardness of the attendees. I’m awkward, but I can say hello and make eye contact. With these mad skills I made quite a few new business contacts. I had a fantastic time. I met a lot of amazing people. I, too, attended an off site free drinks with name tag event hosted by a lit mag/blog platform thingy that was just a hair overcrowded. I even met a few people that I’ve never met in the flesh. It was all very weird, fun, and worthwhile, but part of me is glad to be back home behind my computer monitor.

  3. Boston | March 11, 2013 at 3:44 pm

    we hate you and we’re happy your gone–Boston

  4. Wendy Bird | March 11, 2013 at 10:26 pm

    Introverts are not necessarily lonely or alone.

  5. Not Boston | March 12, 2013 at 12:31 pm

    Oh Boston. You had so much to teach us about Massholes, and we had so much to teach you about the proper use of ‘your’ and ‘you’re’.

  6. 南商所大宗商品 | April 11, 2016 at 6:52 am


Leave a Comment