The coffee at the hotel is terrible. The first day I snuck downstairs and met a friend from grad school. I am terrible with faces, and I look around and see a woman with a hat checking her phone. I approach her with a questioning face. She looks up.
“Oh my god, [real name]!”
And we go to the nearest coffeeshop talking a thousand miles a minute, as if we’ve known each other forever, as if it hasn’t been 12 years since we’ve seen each other.
Day 3, the routine is old hat. Intense conversations at the coffeeshop and then to the AWP jungle. Saturday morning, 8:35, the coffeeshop is filled with writers. Every single one of us has AWP badges and bags. DP said last night that the readings should be in quiet rooms (after a bad bar reading), and I said that the bad panel I went to yesterday would have been significantly better in a bar.
Ask a writer how she feels about her work after a whiskey. She’ll say something a hell of a lot more interesting than, “My writing concerns itself with the body.”