Poet In Paradise: Impressions of A Writers' Conference - Day 3

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.

A Poet In Paradise: Impressions of A Writers' Conference - Day 2

I got to the conference site a few minutes before eight and was able to enjoy the nice croissants and coffee set-up that was provided. This welcomed nourishment, my second breakfast of the day, was necessary fortification for the day ahead. The workshop sessions began. First on the agenda was a program about the major changes that are going on in the publishing industry. The panel consisted of three published authors, one of whom is an editor for Penguin Books, and a literary agent who specializes in helping authors who self-publish. It was a very lively and informative group. Self-publishing is definitely something a modern day poet needs to consider. In my case, without academic credentials or connections, I have very little chance (zero in fact) of being published conventionally. These panelists offered hope.

The next part of the morning activity was the presentation of a paper about religions in science fiction writing. The presenter talked about Vonnegut and a couple other writers and made some interesting points. However her paper, full of excellent and interesting content as it might have been, was read in a less than passionate way which made it a little duller than last night’s Chinese menu. She was followed by another panel discussion led by two authors who have written works of speculative fiction, as opposed to science fiction, and it was a livelier presentation. All of which proves, I guess, that speculation is better than science.

That all finished at about 11 a.m. and I went off to contemplate my 11:30 meeting with an editor from some big ass publishing company. So I went to the hotel bar and ordered a beer to help the contemplation along. Folks who know me know that I don’t usually quibble about the prices of things. But at eleven in the morning being hit with a bill of eight bucks for a glass of beer is a shock to one’s sense of right and wrong. My inclination was to put up a fuss. But, since the cost of beer distracted me from the nervousness of my imminent meeting, I remained quiet. The meeting with the young editor fellow went fine. He offered a thoughtful critique on three of my poems and a cupful of sympathy for the plight of poets in today’s literary world. He didn’t really have any fresh suggestions about the road to publication and didn’t start drooling when I showed him my full manuscript. In fact he just handed the thing back to me and wished me luck.

Instead of having a few more beers, which was what I really felt like doing, I wandered back up to Canal Street and got some Popeye’s chicken for lunch. Popeye’s seems to be the ubiquitous cuisine of Louisiana. Those places are all over and they are all busy. The food is good and hot, cheap and filling. That’s my recipe for haute cuisine. Then I went back to the hotel room to freshen up (such a feminine euphemism) and relax before my next appointment with the agent lady. To fill in the rest of the time before the meeting I built myself up into a state of high anxiety. I’m good at that.

My meeting with the literary agent went fine. She owns her own company and specializes in advising authors (usually female authors) about using non-conventional routes to publication. Her company will evaluate (or “vet” as we say in the book biz) a manuscript and then guide the thing either to an editor on her staff or help the author through the self-publishing process. She was a very nice person and was quite enthusiastic about my poems. Since her company deals only in fiction and non-fiction book length stuff written by women, she didn’t offer to take up the cause of getting me published. She did give me a couple of leads to publishers she knows and she was eager to tell me that she would write notes of reference for me. That was nice. So it was a good meeting with some nice feedback and a couple of possibilities for further contacts, as well as several suggestions about how to get started on the self-publishing route.

That was that for the day’s activities and I decided to stroll down towards the river and Jackson Square. That enabled me to experience some of the tourist ambience of New Orleans which is more than a little strange. Tourist activity in this city seems to be divided between walking around the streets drinking and that other time honored tradition of watching crazy people. A companion to the crazy people watching is listening to some very good “street” music played by crazy people. Besides that there is a sub-genre of street music played by crazy young and very dirty people. There is art on display all around Jackson Square but it’s nearly inaccessible due to the proliferation of Tarot card readers and fortune tellers. From what I could see though, the art is either darkly weird stuff on canvasses made from strange materials, or it consists of layer after layer of brightly colored acrylic or oil paint knifed onto regular canvas until the paintings are several inches thick. Even little pictures the size of a sheet of regular paper must weigh five or six pounds. Judging from the prices on these creations I do think they’re sold by their weight.

After walking around for some time I stopped in the Crescent City Brewery and Pub for a nice dinner and a tall beer. Once again the price of beer in this city made me grab for my wife’s credit card because there was no way I would pay those prices with my own money. My New Orleans style dinner consisted of Pennsylvania’s finest beer, Buffalo chicken wings and a German sausage dinner plate with Idaho potatoes and New York state sauerkraut. It was delicious. Then I made the trek back to my hotel where I settled in for the night. Another good day had come to a close.

A Poet In Paradise: My Impressions of A Writer's Conference

Last Wednesday, November 28th, I flew down to New Orleans to take part in a writers’ conference, the Faulkner Words and Music Festival, since I had been second runner-up in their poetry competition. Those people are nice enough to invite and provide a tuition free opportunity to writers who come close to winning. Their generosity is highly appreciated. The flight down was as pleasant as flying can be nowadays. We are all familiar with the process of humiliation, embarrassment and physical discomfort that is endemic in commercial air travel, so I won’t belabor that issue. But the flights were on time and no worse than being crammed into an aluminum tube, forced to sit on a cramped uncomfortable seat in the company of disease ridden co-passengers is intended to be.

The conference took place in a posh French Quarter venue, the Hotel Monteleone. It is a lovely place; old and prestigious, ornate and impressive. Of course, since I had to pay for my own lodging I didn’t stay there. No, I stayed at a place a few blocks outside the Quarter (notice how I slip into the jargon of a native of New Orleans?) on O’Keefe Avenue, the Quality Inn and Suites. I was expecting the worst. I was almost wishing for the worst. But I was disappointed to find absolutely no material for ridicule in my accommodations. The room was clean, the amenities were fine, the condition of the place overall was adequate and the breakfast was hot and free and pretty darn good. I couldn’t even find an unpleasant or incompetent employee in the four nights I stayed. They were all unfailingly pleasant and helpful. That just goes against everything I’ve come to expect when I travel to big cities.

It surprises me how non-social I’ve become over the years since I retired. Crowds, unless at a concert or some other event, are nearly repulsive. Club-like atmosphere can be repulsive. And the Faulkner – Wisdom, Words and Music Festival is a club-like event. Most of these folks know each other. Many are published authors, some regionally well known, several are widely known and this is an annual deal for them. They enter the contest every year. Often the winners come from their “membership”. And they socialize like crazy. I knew it would be a difficult week for me, socially speaking. I figured beer and my uncanny ability to lurk unnoticed around the edges of a room would help me get through the thing.

At the first luncheon program I walked out of the session after one beer in the bar. There wasn’t a struggling writer in the room or, if there was one, he or she was wearing the cloak of yuppie-dom quite nicely. Even the real youngsters in the group were somewhat pretentious in an MFA kind of way. My name tag said “Writer” in big letters. But when I added the subtext of poet as the conversation began these people suddenly acted like I was a rabid raccoon. On the other hand, in a couple of cases my mentioning of poets and poetry seemed to elicit a kind of sympathetic feeling as if I had a bad case of shingles or perhaps leprosy. It was kind of funny actually. On the first day of the conference I couldn’t find another poet. There were some around, I know, and a group of them were scheduled to be there on Sunday the final day of the event.

Now that doesn’t mean that the programs on the first day were dull or lacking in interest. On the first morning we were treated to small readings and mini-lectures by a varied and rather fascinating selection of authors. The day started with a panel involving a nice book called “Meanwhile, Back at the Café DuMonde…” by Peggy Sweeney McDonald. It was funny stuff and very good. There was even a nice jazz trumpet solo by one of the panel members. Then there were a couple of historian type authors followed by a music writer. Next came two more historians, a graphic artist and then a panel of fiction writers. Nice. Lunch was at a posh joint called Arnaude’s. As I said, I escaped that venue and had a crawfish omelet at a little café nearby.

The festival so far had been chock full of “cultcha” but I decided to skip the club meeting on Thursday night. They called it a party but that was just a ruse. It was actually a ritual involving the worship of the New Orleans Saints, disregarding their completely futile attempt to beat the Atlanta Falcons. I’m not into NFL shamanistic practices so I opted out.

Anyway, I returned to the conference site for the afternoon session on Thursday which was a workshop about the pleasures and perils of writing about dead people. I mean real dead people as opposed to zombies or ghosts or vampires. Four authors who have written non-fictional accounts of various famous or semi-famous people’s lives spoke about their books then participated in a panel discussion about that type of writing. It was interesting stuff and when I get back home I intend to get their books out of the library, if they’re available. If I bought every book I was interested in that was being sold at this conference I’d surely be a starving poet. Or, at the very least, I’d end up as a husband who got knocked around by a wife angry about credit card abuse. The session ended a little after five. Since I had opted out of the evening NFL witch-craft event I decided to try New Orleans style Chinese food. Buying Chinese food in different cities is part of my campaign to search out regional nuances in ingredients and preparations. Amazingly, after checking out that cuisine (there’s a language stretch) in many cities and towns throughout the northeast, mid-atlantic, and southern states I haven’t found any differences. None. There’s not even any difference in the photos on the menu from town to town. Anyway, after dining at the Golden Wall on Canal Street I went to my hotel room, made a phone call home and then did some reading. I even watched the TV for twenty minutes or so until I couldn’t stand the noise. More reading was then followed by a good night’s sleep.

Now have a fine day.

A Poet and a Troubadour

On Sunday, November 11th, I had the pleasure of hearing poet Janet Scott McDaniel and singer-songwriter Jim Rezak at Acorn Books in Dover, DE. Janet read several of her poems accompanied by gentle guitar rhythms from Jim and he also interspersed several of his songs into her array of poetry. It was a fine combination.

Janet’s poetry is melodious and songlike, with well crafted imagery and plenty of emotion. Her reading is very skilful, clear and well paced with just the right low key dramatic touches. Janet's poems are personal and sometimes sentimental but never maudlin. She also never falls into the trap of turning sentiment into sappiness, which is no small accomplishment. She is the author of two collections which she has self published: “The Light and Other Collected Poems” and “Parallel Dreams”. Both are available at Acorn Books and on Amazon.com.

Jim Rezak has been playing music for forty plus years but only recently started writing songs. His tunes are romantic country, harkening back to the days when country music wasn’t driven by over-produced, rock style arrangements. He has a fine voice and an easy touch with his guitar. From his first notes I was thinking of how much like country great Don Williams Jim sounds.

If you get an opportunity to hear either of these folks perform, either separately or, if you’re lucky, in a joint program you should stop in. You’ll be glad you did.

Open Season 2012: Epilogue

The election is over, the incumbent is still an incumbent and the challenger is probably trying to get some rest. Analyzers are analyzing and pundits are picking apart what the analyzers report. Meanwhile the vast majority of Americans are going about their business – going to work, looking for work, avoiding work. And of course there are the lucky few who are done with work, having completed their obligations.

As a supporter of the challenger I am, of course, disappointed. Here in my home state I was disappointed from the top to the bottom of the ballot. Not that I expected any joyous outcome here, but one does hope for an occasional spot of light. It was not to be this year.

It’s interesting to me that so many of my fellow citizens so obviously feel that the government is where we should look for progress and good ideas. My view is definitely not in line with those folks. And I suppose if we look at the popular vote count we do see that in terms of percentages, the margin of the majority is very small. In other words, in spite of the incumbent’s victory there is no clear mandate and the country is still sharply divided. How the administration addresses that division will be the key to whether or not the nation continues its decline or whether it heals and grows. The past four years have not been too exemplary in bringing people together. Maybe without the pressure of needing to be re-elected the administration will look for wider solutions to the problems of the economy and other major issues.

A lot of my fellow conservatives are in deep despair today. They are predicting doom and they are shadowed by gloom. My feelings are a little different. I believe that our system of governance, with all of its built in checks and balances, will withstand an assault of foolish actions. It will be difficult, especially if the folks in power tamper too much with the founding documents. But if they try to do too much tampering there are legal remedies in place to abrogate those efforts. And there is an opposition leadership now that is vocal and organized, ready to stop things from getting too far out of hand. So I’m still not ready to look for asylum in some other country. That’s not to say that I don’t belong in a different kind of asylum.

In conclusion there is a definite advantage to having this election over and done. And that advantage is that you won’t be pestered with any more of these long and boring political diatribes, at least not until the next election cycle.

Now go with hope and have a fine day.

OPEN SEASON: LAST CALL

On the day after tomorrow a goodly number of us will be going to the polls to cast our votes. Some may be making their vote for revenge, some for love of country and still others as a part of their party obligation. My vote will be submitted in a spirit of civic duty and personal responsibility. That doesn’t make me nobler than any of those other folks; it’s just my own frame of mind.

Today, as soon as I finish this little article, I’m going to mentally withdraw from all the political ballyhooing and just review the options and see if my current choices can be shaken. I’ve noticed on the social media that a lot of folks are making last minute pitches for various points of view, referencing all kinds of research and claims drawing on the testimony of experts and political operatives. More power to them, I suppose.

Locally my votes are going to jump around the political spectrum a bit and will be largely in favor of those who have not held office before. In our state races I’m again pushing for folks who are running against incumbents. Delaware’s party machinery is so entrenched that my favorite candidates don’t have much of a realistic chance of winning. We have a very opaque (as opposed to transparent) state government with collusion and “good old boy” dealing going on all the time and involving every issue. Very little work is done on behalf of the citizenry as the politicians work so hard for their own personal gain. That’s not so different from other states I suppose, but in a state as small as ours one would think that it would be easier to oust the self-indulgent office holders. But it isn’t. Term limits would offer a partial solution.

When it comes to our congressional delegation I’m definitely voting against incumbents. Our lone congressman and the one senator who is up for re-election both need to be removed. They are both part of that spurious network of political opportunists that are intent on keeping their careers on track while paying lip service to their constituencies. They’re either very adept at feigning sincerity or they have come to believe in their own small messianic personae. Their acts fool enough of the people often enough, but it’s high time we quit believing their baloney and send them packing.

As for the presidential election, well, I’ve heard enough and had enough. If twenty percent of the reporting on the Benghazi tragedy is correct then that alone would be enough to clinch my decision against the incumbent. But I also happen to believe that the president is a divisive leader. He’s talked about bi-partisan cooperation but has done nothing of substance to back up his talk. Of course he’ll blame the opposition but I’ve seen enough news and read enough about congressional machinations to see that much of the blockage standing in the way of reform has been solely a product of his administration. That, in addition to his bigger government policies, indiscriminate spending, religious belief disrespecting and general moves towards more interference into the private lives of citizens has sent me more and more strongly to his opponent. There’s one more thing and it’s just a personal problem I suppose. I feel that our current president is an extremely egotistical person with very little sincerity in his public pronouncements. Ego is endemic to thinking one is suitable for the office. I’m sure his opponent has a large ego. But that opponent has some real solid accomplishments to show for his years of work. The incumbent president’s record is full of only political maneuvering and campaigning. And the last four years did not add anything substantial to that record.

Okay, I’m done now. If you agree with me, go and vote to prove it. If you disagree do the same. Although it won’t bother me too much if you disagree-ers stay home. I’m just kidding. Let your voice be heard. That’s the whole point of this exercise.

Have a fine day.

Open Season: Part 4

Truth. It’s only a five letter word. And the definition in my handy dandy desk dictionary is pretty simple: 1) Being true; specifically; a) sincerity, honesty b) conformity with fact c) reality; actual existence d) correctness, accuracy 2) That which is true 3) An established fact.

In this season of political blustering, debates and airwave saturation it seems that Truth is an elusive commodity. We pay attention to a political debate between two or more candidates chasing office at any level of government. We think we hear facts. We would like to think that these candidates are honest and sincere as they cite their records or pick away at their opponents records or public statements. But the next day we go to some dot-com version of a fact checking service and find out that candidate number one didn’t quite get too close to the truth on his statistics about this or that issue. And candidate number two didn’t actually vote against a particular proposal, in fact he voted for the thing. So we start comparing the candidates based on the number of errors or lies they made. But then, to confuse things even more, we go to another dot-com fact checking site and find that, using a slightly different set of statistics and statement reviews, the error and lie score is the opposite of the first dot-com site. What the hell?

Is there no such thing as an absolute Truth any more? And if presented with an absolute Truth in a political race would anyone recognize it and change their vote accordingly? Probably not. We’ve become so convinced in our predisposed positions that we have a hard time seeing Truth in any context other than that which we are predisposed towards.

In other words, for example, if Vice President Biden says he voted against sending troops to Iraq or Afghanistan in a nationally televised debate, as he did, then his supporters accept that as fact even though the opposite is true and verified by a glance at the Congressional Record. And when his opponent Mr. Ryan states that a particular dollar amount is taken from one program and put into another (an easily verifiable fact supported by the Congressional Budget Office that happens to be true) Mr. Biden and his supporters call the statement a lie. And in all honesty I’ll bet the reverse is true for the other side when Mr. Ryan made some errors or misstated certain claims about Mr. Biden’s record. The point is we are predisposed to believe that which is in line with our own view of the political world.

This morning I looked at three different articles claiming to be fact checking in nature. In two of them Mr. Biden looked slightly worse than Mr. Ryan. In the other the errors and/or lies were about even. But when I put that information to a friend who is a dedicated Biden supporter she refused to accept it. And the reason she’s not accepting those facts is that she has a view of government that is more in line with Biden than it is with Ryan and his side. I posed a hypothetical question to her: “Would you change your vote if it was discovered that Biden was complicit in a cover-up designed to keep information about how the administration had mishandled programs directed against terrorists in northern Africa?” She said no. She indicated that the administration would probably have been acting on the intelligence available at the time. So I, being an antagonistic sort of fellow, said; “Well why were you so strongly against former President Bush when his administration claimed, based on intelligence available at the time, that we needed to go into Iraq to get rid of Saddam Hussein and his weapons programs.” “Well” she said “that was different.”

So back we go to Truth. I’m nearly convinced that Truth doesn’t matter except in one area. The area that should matter to us is the real gut feeling we get when we hear a politician speak. All humans have a certain capacity for sensing when another human is bullshitting us. We may accept that bullshit for awhile because it’s easier to get along that way. But eventually we realize the Truth and we quietly and privately act on that realization. Politicians who stay in office for a long time become skilled in the arts of deception. But if we pay attention we can see how they are more interested in keeping their office than they are in serving the interests of their constituents. And it seems that the more they smile, the more they fall back on slogans and aphorisms the more deceptive they have become. So I’m pretty sure I’m going with my instincts this year. In local contests, in the state races and in the national election I’m looking for the signs of a bullshitter. And when I see those signs I’ll vote for the other candidate. If both candidates seem to be loaded with B.S. then I’ll write someone else in. At least I’ll be acting in as honest a way as I can.

Have a fine day.