I’m relieved not to face another cafeteria meal, not the food so much as the reminder of myself in seventh grade when the planetary system of our junior high lunch room shifted in ways often imperceptible and sometimes like a meteor storm leaving so much debris in its wake. All that self-consciousness then, and  even now, at this advanced age. Excuse me, is that seat taken? Hi, is anyone sitting there?

Tin House is an excellent conference with worshops, lectures,  and readings in a stunning outdoor amphitheater overlooking  a pond where ducks and geese squabble. Cocktails every night on a beautiful quad, and from what I hear there’s even a decent amount of hooking up. In the faculty dorm, drinking, poker, and other manly arts.

I spoke with a few writers around the edges of the conference who reminded me of myself when I first attended workshops as a student: a little awkward, nervous, excited. They had all taken that first brave step, announced in some important way to themselves that they were writers. They were here.

One young man told me he was working on a memoir. “What happened to you?” I asked. He laughed and coughed on the drag of the cigarette he was taking. “What happened to me?” he repeated. “Yeah,” I persisted, “what happened that you have to write about.”  The young man snubbed out his cigarette, “Okay,” he said, “If you put it that way, I’ll tell you.”

And then he told me one of the saddest stories I have ever heard.

Filed under: Writers, Writing |