Snowing and 37 degrees
I'm at #AWP2015 in Minneapolis hawking books for Poets Out Loud. It is snowing and 37 degrees. My hotel room is beautiful and quiet with a King-size bed. I have been tweeting somewhat relentlessly @and I swear it changes how I am processing things. Or maybe it is just the sudden vacuum of space, mental space, and I have to readjust back to not being interrupted every second, maybe I have to relearn how to have a continuous thought sequence. I saw hats and scarves for sale in the coffee shop this morning and I thought -- I have to take a picture and broadcast that immediately. @ is not a place where I broadcast my every banal thought but just posting there somewhat anonymously has seriously warped my head. Or hearing people complain about waking up at 6:30 this morning and wanting to make a snarky irritating comment (not to the people next to me but to other people through some digital medium) about how I woke up at that same time today too and it was the latest I've woken up in a really long time. That is ridiculous and the obvious way to shut myself up is to say "You chose this", which I did. Same response when I feel put-upon being a grad student and mom to young children. You chose this. You don't get to complain about things you chose--right? Seems reasonable. Do you get to vent but not actually complain? I do wonder why sitting in front of the pretend fire in the beautiful hotel lobby this morning with coffee I wanted to post or broadcast or discuss something and get that immediate gratifying response back. I have to train myself almost to remember that thoughts don't all have to go immediately out into the world. You can sit with them, revise them, multiply them, and then send them out there. Hmm. I don't know. Even this I want to discuss right now. I also wondered if any of the writers I've "known" through my blog are here at AWP? If you are, find me. I'm at Table 425 and my battery is running out so I'll be looking up from my screen soon and out into the unreal infinite sea of lovely pages, a chimerical windowless room, where print culture is alive and well.