A rainy Sunday with coffee, a breakfast sammy and some Wesley Holmes house mix yes please.
AWP was this week in Seattle and I skipped all of it except a friend's party at the Alibi Room for the Mineral School. I'm not a joiner but that wasn't it, this time. I've been getting published the past couple of years--so why don't I feel like a part of the writing community?
A clue: I gave up my subscription to the New Yorker because the fiction annoyed me so much. Each week it read like inside baseball, writing for writers, the MFA club featuring meta little tales of constipated white people or super self-conscious morality tales, instead of a ripping good story that also happens to be brilliantly-written. I'm sure I could have learned something but I was too scared of coming into contact with smug--it's contagious! run away!
So my protest is what--a silent boycott?
AWP won't miss me. Neither has or will the New Yorker. I feel like there's a way to be both successful and not take it all so seriously.
Here are more pictures snapped around the neighborhood.
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