On Saturday morning I got back to the writers’ conference site bright and early again. After I had a croissant and coffee I settled in to the workshop routine. The first session, another panel discussion, was concerned with the use of non-traditional methods in making fiction. Or something. It seemed to me that these guys were talking about using stuff like poetry, performance art techniques, dramatic devices and so forth in writing novels. But a lot of the discussion was about how writing plays was different from writing books. It was interesting in the same kind of way that watching brain surgery is interesting; I didn’t understand what the surgeons were doing, or why, but it’s pretty cool when the blood starts squirting. Of course that’s just a “figure of speech”, another bit of writer jargon.
The next panel discussion (they really favor that format here) was about how truth can be revealed in fiction. You know, fiction isn’t real so how can truth, which is real after all, exist in a made up story? I’ll be damned if I know. And the panelists couldn’t seem to come to any good explanation for why it works but only that it does. I’m being a little facetious (of course) and the discussion was actually fun and very interesting with lots of cool personal stories. One bit of advice I took away from the program was that if I write anything personal about family or friends or strangers who happen to be alive, even in poems or blogs, eventually someone will be very angry about it, so I should be prepared to deal with that anger. Dealing with the anger could even involve moving to another state which actually happened to one of the authors on the panel. So far I’m okay because I try to disguise the bad stuff with false names and other lies. So I’d say this session about truth was one of the best of the whole conference.
By one o’clock or so I was pretty well work-shopped to death. So I left the conference and wandered down to the Mississippi (I love spelling that word) to watch tourists look at the river. It kind of reminded me of when Clark Griswold visited the Grand Canyon on his way to Wally World in the “Family Vacation” movie. The men on the lovely river-walk just kind of looked out straight ahead, looked left then right and then said “Let’s go!” as they dragged their family back to the French Quarter to look at ladies in tight clothing. And by the way, what’s the deal with fishnet stockings on the streets of New Orleans? I saw more women (and a few men) wearing black lacy stockings than I’ve seen in any other city. It isn’t just the local women sporting this fashion either. Even blue haired old tourist ladies who should know better were wearing black fishnet stockings with their culottes. I even saw a couple of grandmotherly type women with fish-net knee highs. I suppose there’s no logical reason for fashion statements like that.
After pondering questions about local fashions and other esoteric matters I made my way back to my cheap hotel to get ready for Saturday night’s big gala event at the fancy conference hotel. I needed to clean up and put on my “going to funerals and weddings” suit as I looked forward to a high class meal and maybe, just maybe, a free beer or two.
At seven o’clock I walked on back to the conference hotel feeling quite natty in my crisp white shirt and tie and my suit that would make any Philadelphia lawyer proud. As I said before I only wear a suit for weddings and funerals and on those occasions I’ll try to skirt around the requirement if the dress code isn’t too rigid. Years ago I had to wear suits and ties and such as part of my daily working garb. I hated it then and, no matter how distinguished it makes me look, I hate it now. The sacrifices we make for Art are truly a burden.
The first part of the big gala was a cocktail party and the presentation of awards to the Faulkner competition winners. I entered the room set up for that part of the program and found a dazzling sight. Beautiful women in elegant dresses stood in little groups chatting and sipping wine and fruity mixed drinks. And there were men, of course, also standing around in groups drinking beer and looking uncomfortable in their party attire. Some guys were even wearing tuxedos and they looked more uncomfortable than anyone else. The tuxedo is the silliest fashion creation ever foisted upon men since chain mail armor. At least armor had a purpose. A tuxedo has no logical connection to usefulness or comfort. Sure James Bond looks good in a tux but the rest of us look like (get ready for the Frank Zappa reference) penguins in bondage. So I ordered up a beer, Bud Lite, which only set me back six bucks. No free beer here. And I took up my place at the edge of the room where I watched and eavesdropped on scintillating conversations. Most of the talk was about publishing. Questions like “Are you published yet?” “When is your book coming out?” “Did you see that poet lurking at the edge of the room?” I made up that last question. No one notices a lurking poet except another poet.
And suddenly, across the room I spotted another lurking poet. He was a little fellow, ten years or so older than me and he was wearing what looked to be the most uncomfortable tux in the room, maybe in the whole city of New Orleans. It didn’t take long for me to recognize him as the poet who won the competition this year. So I crossed the room and introduced myself. Now this fellow is a pretty famous poet, the head of the creative writing department at a major university and a scholar with an international reputation. His first words to me were “My wife made me rent this damn tuxedo and then wouldn’t even come to this party because she thinks these things are far too boring.” I was moved. We went on to discuss beer, women, traveling, fishnet stockings and poetry. The night was a success, as far as I was concerned.
After the awards were handed out and speeches were made we went up to the main ballroom for the actual dinner. By now it was nine o’clock and I was really hungry. I staked a claim to a table at the back of the room and was actually joined by four young people who turned out to be quite nice even though they weren’t poets. The dinner was fancy enough and consisted of a complicated little salad followed by a shrimp and pasta entrée. After the main course there was a dramatic program featuring Cicely Tyson, recreating her role as Miss Jane Pittman, which was in honor of the author Ernest Gaines who wrote that book. She was terrific and in just a few minutes she conveyed the amount of strength required of a person who had to come up out of slavery and live to be a hundred years old. Then we had dessert. Now doesn’t that seem a little bit incongruous to you? It did to me. It was a wonderful performance but I thought maybe they should have done something with a little lighter touch. But that’s just me and the dessert was delicious.
By eleven o’clock I was done with my dinner and feeling tired so I left the party. The next morning I was told that the gala lasted until one o’clock. That just goes to show that those high-toned artsy folks are much better at partying than this old poet.
There’s only one more part to this tale but it won’t show up for a day or two. Be patient and have a fine day.
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