--IF THERE WAS A BETTER WORD THAN      AMAZING,
    I WOULD USE IT

Writers are people, too.  But then so are felons, you might say.

Writers are human and awkward and not at all transparent, though some are, of course.

Sometimes we (writers) like to think we have thick, alligator suitcase skin, a carapace of sorts, because, well, that’s quite necessary for survival in a “field” like ours where rejection is as common as Seattle rain.

But the truth is, our skin is, more often than not, thinner than the shrillest French crepe.  We are easily embarrassed.  We’re sensitive and moody and self-conscious, even when we shouldn’t be, even if, say, we find ourselves surrounded by a brood of 10,000 like-minded creatures. 

Encapsulated with so many other writers should make us feel emboldened, somewhat spiritual even.  Instead we roam the convention center and hotel lobbies like stilted zombies, eyes usually averted.  We check our phones in order to avoid conversation.  We hold our phone to our face and fake-laugh out loud so someone else passing by might think we have friends who are funny.

And yet, alone together, in a small cluster, maybe two steps from loopy, there’s a crack of lightning.  A seam opens up and we allow the unfiltered light to hit us.  We strip off our protective clothing and actually let our fucking hair down, meaning we allow ourselves to become vulnerable with each other.  And it’s okay.  It’s more than that.  It feels kind of nice, really nice actually, to be able to speak our individual truths about whatever comes to mind, without having to worry about recriminations.

In those moments of togetherness, we are no longer awkward aliens.  We sit across from each other anxious to hear what the other thinks and they readily tell us and it feels nice, wonderful actually.

We give our answers to questions not worrying if they are sharp and witty and fulfilling.  We talk about why we’re writers and what it is we write about.  Some of us have had bad childhoods or destructive marriages.  Some of us aren’t sure about very much and so our writing is a search, a wish to find out—to find ourselves or that deep blank space we carry around in the pit of our soul.

We do all this one short step at a time and as we do we realize how safe we feel, how accepted we are in the way twins or lovers might feel with one another.  We share our love of literature and it binds us in a way that would be challenging to describe to anyone who is not a writer.

And when all this happens, the skies do not part, no New York agent taps us on the shoulder saying, “Been meaning to tell you, you’ve got mad skills and I’d love to represent you if you have a manuscript sitting in a drawer somewhere.”

No, sometimes the breakthroughs take time and always trust, given and reciprocated.  And when that occurs, you kick back in a chair.  You no longer give a goddamn.  Not for a few minutes or few hours anyway, because this is AWP and in this moment, you are not the bizarre ugly duckling you often feel you are, but rather a writer with stories and dreams, the same as anyone else, though your stories and dreams are different.

And that’s okay.  In fact, it’s more than okay.  It’s close to perfect.

                                                 ************

This year’s AWP was my favorite ever and I had a few special moments like the ones mentioned above with several of the people listed below, or else some I was just meeting for the first time.  No matter what, they were all very lovely:

Robert Vaughan, Karen Stefano, Robert P. Kay, Christine Texitera, Gloria Mindock, Joani Reese, James Thomas, Laura McCullough, Shainel Beers, Kim Chinquee, Chris Allen, David O’Connor, Sarah Chavez, Lee Kreclow, Sara Fitzpatrick Comito, Wendy Ortiz, David Hornbuckle, Brian Alan Ellis, Tommy Dean, Michael, McInnis, Betsy Marks-Smith, Sean Foley, Tsipi Keller, Helen Rye, Helene Cordoba, Mary Miller, Pamela Clark, Tiff Holland, Ki Russell, Paul Lisicky, Andrea, Sydney…

—I’M NOT TOO GOOD AT GOOD-BYES

…Here’s a poem I had published a while back:

https://inbetweenhangovers.wordpress.com/2018/02/28/imagination-by-len-kuntz/

…Who’s that guy?  I think l he looks familiar and I think he has a book of poetry out.  He told me to tell you he misses you.

…The past isn’t as far away as we think.  Even vines cling for their lives.

…I might as well spend money on wine instead of new books.  Might as well pour wine all over these books.  I might as well stop dreaming of heaven and have another glass of wine.  Tell me why not.  Explain in great detail, and I will listen intensively.

…Otters have a lot to say, if you listen.  One keeps reminding me that I’m still young enough.

…Dawn is here again, and somehow that is significant.  Dawn is here again, and I still hear you.

…People pay attention when someone is really angry.  It’s a wonder, then, why people aren’t raging all the time.

…I’m in the pack, but I’m still all alone.

…Sometimes when my face is wet with tears, that’s my best feature because it’s who I really am.

…I knew it would be embarrassing to write all this on here for you to see me with all my rickety bones and hairy back.  But I thought you might be able to stand the sight of me, that, in some respect, you perhaps could relate, identify with a flawed being.  And by the way, I’m not really talking about hairy backs here.

…I said it before and I’ll say it again, it was all my fault.

…The heartbeat of this story lies in the next sentence.

…Sometimes I dream I’m happy, but that’s usually after having drunk a lot of wine.

…Or you could bring some wine over, and some fragrant flowers, because the bars are closed.  Even if you bang on the doors all day, the rain is still beautiful for about five minutes before it’s annoying.

…We can never be sure of enough.

…Love always wants to put a smile on the face of the other.

…When you see love on display it pretty much trumps everything.

…Really, we are all just God’s poetry going about our everyday lives.

…What you mean it ain’t working?  What you mean you ain’t finding yourself?

…Twistin’ me up like licorice isn’t the nicest way to handle things.

…Often, I say I’m off it, and I offer my crossed sympathy.

…Don’t call me stupid.  That ain’t no way my name pronounced.

…It’s funny how things can change, how the ebb and flow will take you under and that’s just what you want it to do.

…You are only young once, but you can remain immature indefinitely if you choose to.

…I pray for you that you never have to sit in a doctor’s waiting room, or that if, God forbid, you have to, that you have some great reading material at hand, as well as some kind of serious faith.

…If I don’t get what I want one day, I simply wait a day or two and ask again.  You never know.  Maybe today will be different.

…You don’t need to tell me.  Of course, I remember: I’m not supposed to take things so seriously.

--PUT IT ALL ON ME 

…It could only mean one thing—that I am the dumbest human to have ever lived.

…Twenty-seven days.  Is that too much to ask for?

…“I should have known better” is something that’s always said on the flip side, when it’s already too late.

…I am brave.  I am bruised.  I’ve got a room at the top of the of the world tonight and I ain’t coming down.

…There’s always going to be a part of me that’s loud and sloppy, but I kind of like it that way.

…Like a coin you are mint and I am dented.

…There are a lot of different forms of identity theft.  But then you already knew that.

…Everybody could have peace if they just tried a little harder.  The sun wouldn’t have it any other way.

…I stopped looking.  I mean, what’s the point?

…Tool (n): a device or implement, especially one held in the hand, used to carry out a particular function.

…Some people enjoy symphonies, and others the sound of breaking glass.

…I am trying to flinch less.  No really, I am.  I am trying to flinch less, so please don’t sneak up on me or drop another bombshell.

…Let it leave.  Let it go.  Let it happen.  Nothing in this world was promised to you or belonged to you anyway.

…Right there is the answer you’re looking for.

…What is it with you and squirrels?   I mean, you can’t find anything more interesting?

…The thing about sunflowers is they worship the sun and only when it arrives do they stand up straight.  When the sun leaves, they bow their heads in mourning.

…Sometimes I stop myself from saying the words out loud as if leaving my mouth too often might wear them down.

…The most important conversations we have are usually with ourselves.

…You’ll see what apologies look like when one of us is dying at eighty-five.

…This morning I told the flowers what I’d do for you and they blossomed.

…On bad days I think about it, what I might do if the apocalypse comes and the planes stop flying and there is all that time to do nothing but think.

…I am made of water.  Of course, I’m emotional.

…The right one does not stand in your way.  They make space for you to step forward.  Yet, sometimes they trip you while you’re walking.

…What I thought was an endless conversation was actually me just talking to myself, talking to a ghost person.

…I’ve learned everything is temporary—moments, people, feelings.  I’ve learned vulnerability is not always the right choice.

…The universe took it’s time working on you.  You’re a masterwork.  You’re a piece of work.

…I am the ghost of ghosts everywhere.  I am the magic trick no one sees.  The sleight of hand doing its bidding off stage.

…Upon the birth of each child a mother says, “There is God in you.  Can you feel her dancing?”

…Life and death are old friends and I am the conversation in between them.  I am their late night chatter, their laughter and tears, and most times their greatest source of laughter.

…To hate is an easy, lazy thing.  And still I do it anyway.  Such a bad, bad boy.

…I don’t want another nickname as long as I live.  You can call me Al.  After all, that was my dad’s name.  One of them, anyway.

…Dear God,

What does it mean to belief in you?  Can you draw me a picture of what that looks like?

Thank you

…Well, that was fun.