Even the time I designate each day for writing, from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m., isn’t sacred. Often I have more pressing commitments, especially during the school year when, as a writing professor, I have to grade papers, plan classroom lectures and activities, and meet with students—I have been known to schedule morning breakfast meetings with students as early as 6:30 a.m. because it’s the only time during the day I can shoehorn it into my schedule.

The writing retreat has revealed how a hectic life can overrun what is one of the most important elements of my life—the thing that brings me sanity and courage and renewal: Writing. I simply have to learn to say “no” so I can say “yes” to the writing.

This writing retreat also brought along something unexpected. Fear. After an eleven-hour drive from my home in northern Indiana, with only a bagel to sustain me for the entire trip, my defenses were gone when I arrived near dusk. It was still about eighty-five degrees and humid. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I was sweating. Exhausted and shaky from lack of food, I got a first look at the place where I’d spend the next three weeks. An enormous white farmhouse along a tiny lane on a hill overlooking a valley of trees and the James River. The only sound was crickets. I instantly panicked, texting both my husband and my mother. “What have I done?” I asked. “I can’ stay here for three weeks.” They tried to encourage me, but I was nearly inconsolable.

There was nothing else to do but write.

I focused on settling into my room, then I sat on my bed and cried. I had to talk myself into not packing up my car again and driving another eleven hours back home. I finally convinced myself to at least stay the night and if I felt the same way in the morning, then I could go.

I felt the same way in the morning, but instead of packing up I drank some coffee, turned on my computer and began revising some work I had done before arriving. Then I moved on to new material. Eight hours later I made myself a bowl of rice for dinner, sat on one of the two porches that span the length of the farmhouse and began to relish the quiet and the solitude. I went to bed early, woke up early the next day and started again. I did the same the next day and the next and the next.

Presented with the all-encompassing quiet, I was only in the company of myself and the writing. I discovered that the fear that had overwhelmed me was like looking into a mirror and really seeing myself for the first time. It occurred to me that I’d spent so much time in my previous work interrogating others that when I was face-to-face with myself, I could barely sit still. Turning my writing eye onto myself with all its inconvenient truths caused me to nearly give up.

Since 2012, I’ve been working to transform my MFA thesis into a memoir and couldn’t figure out what I was missing with the project. After four versions of it, I knew it still wasn’t quite right. Thanks to spending time writing out in the middle of a Virginia forest, I’ve moved into the fifth version of it with a clarity I’ve never had before. All thanks to the quiet and solitude of not having anything else to do but write.

 Jennifer Ochstein has published essays with Hippocampus Magazine, The Cresset, Connotation Press, Evening Street Review, and The Lindenwood Review. She has written book reviews for Brevity and River Teeth Blog. Follow her at jenniferochstein.com.

The post The Panic of Writing appeared first on Newfound.

April 9: “Don’t let anyone consider your poems confessionalist. That’s crap.” –Jan Beatty, #AWP15

I went to “The Poem as a Bodily Thing” panel, where I heard some wonderful thoughts on poems as a, well, bodily thing. This quote by Jan Beatty (who’ve I’ve admired for a long time) definitely struck me. Her point was about sexism and how no one would ever consider a man to be a confessionalist poet. I’m a woman, I’m a poet, and I’ve most-definitely been labeled as confessionalist. Jan is a wise woman.

Apr 9: “It’s time to stop worrying about if people like you. You are grown-ass adults. Time to pack that away.” -@ElissaSchappell Amen! #AWP15

Talk about a great panel! I went to “No Shame: Sex Scenes by Women, About Women.” My friend Julia Fierro was on that panel (and side note: it is SO much fun meeting your internet friends IRL at AWP). The room was packed. People were sitting on the floor. There was laughter. There was thoughtful conversation. There was confidence oozing over the front of that room that we couldn’t help but get some on us. Elissa Schappell had some great words, to the point with no apologies. Might have been the best panel I’ve ever been to at any AWP, but that’s like trying to choose my favorite leg.

Apr 9: Best booth ever! @TwoofCupsPress @teneiced Was it whiskey or bourbon? I can’t remember! #AWP15

I tweeted this after my evening was over. I passed one booth offering a free shot of bourbon when you purchased two books from them, but wasn’t seduced. Later, I told the ladies at this booth about it. One pulled out the plastic shot glasses, the other pulled out the liquor. “You don’t need to buy anything from us,” they said. They gave me a shot. And then I bought several things from them throughout the course of the conference. Let that be a lesson to you, other booths!

Apr 10: I’m 17 again, fangirling over @TaylorMali! Also realizing I had awesome teachers that introduced him to us. #AWP15

There’s a saying my dad used to tell me: “When scoring your first touchdown, act like you’ve been there before.” Well, sports analogies are lost on me. So, when I see that Taylor Mali is going to be at a booth I’m walking past, then happen to catch the eye of man sitting behind the sign, smirking at me as I read said sign, then look at his name tag to see his name is Taylor Mali, yeah, I kind of lose it. I hugged him before I introduced myself. I bought his book. I had him sign it to my best friend. And then I asked him to take a selfie with me. My high school English teacher was very much into the poetry slam scene in Chicago, and in the mid 90s, Taylor Mali was pretty much inventing it. I like to think he’s somewhere now, telling the tale of how the redheaded lady with the cat-eye glasses nearly knocked him over with excitement.

Apr 11: Listening to Rita Dove, five feet away from her. No one else has noticed! At the @tatestreetorg booth! #awp15 #fangirl

This was the actual conversation in my head: “Ooh. I like that lady’s shirt. She looks just like Rita Dove. Oh my God. That is Rita Dove!” I looked around like I’d just spotted George Clooney picking up his dry-cleaning. “Where’s the line of fans?! Where’s the paparazzi?!” I asked myself. She was reading a poem for Robert Pinsky’s Favorite Poem Project. In between takes, we conversed a little, and I may or may not have had a hand in keeping the aisle quiet while she read.

AWP is like a literary comic-con. There was always another panel I wanted to attend or booth I wanted to hit. With time and money limited, I think I did okay. Now, to read all the material I brought back with me!

Jessica S. Frank is a journalist, poet and fiction writer living in Wisconsin. Though she has many publication credits under her belt, no one in her small town believes her. You can find her online at www.jessicasfrank.com or on Twitter at @jsfrank79.

The post Behind the Tweet: Memorable moments from AWP 15 appeared first on Newfound.

The first of many panels that I saw was the enticingly titled “Sympathy for the Devil: Writing ‘Unlikable’ Characters.” As the name suggests, the panelists were dedicated to explaining why a character that you want to hang out with is not necessarily better than a character you would never want near your children. References as diverse as Humbert Humbert, Bullet in the Brain and the Devil, were supplemented with the panelists’ own readings about white supremacists, violent teenagers and puppy-drowners to create an enthralling mix of discomfort and fascination. Needless to say, it was not a reading for the faint of heart.

On the topic of things which make the heart faint, the next day saw Minneapolis’ own Graywolf Press present some of their recently published writers. To stand out in such a group is impressive, and Mark Doten’s excerpt, prefaced by him calling for painkillers and accepting a handful of fries from a woman in the front row, stood out enough for me to buy his book immediately. Hearing about a soldier from the Iraq war vomiting maggots while trying to book a restaurant for his anniversary is something that stays with you. There was beauty to balance it, however, as Tony Hoagland, Catherine Barnett and Jeffrey Reynard Allen, amongst others, read poetry and prose that could do no less than soothe a hungover soul.

At AWP one could certainly never complain about lack of variety. The events at the conference ranged from the breath-taking reading from Roxane Gay and Marie Howe’s poetic litany of penis types, to the tale of starting a dramatic podcast about supernatural occurrences in Minnesota. To say there was something for everyone would be an understatement, because the only downside to AWP is that there are too many somethings for everyone at any given time. Being spoiled for choice is a wonderful problem to have.

But it wasn’t all readings and lectures, because a huge part of the conference is simply the atmosphere. Being among thousands of like-minded literary nomads was as close to a pilgrimage to Mecca as I will get. The Minneapolis streets—clean, quiet and, in the eyes of any New Yorker, fit for royalty—were constantly lined with tote bag-swinging, lanyard-wearing writers. “There sure are a lot of writers,” one Minnesotan remarked in the elevator.

This multitude also provided the frequent pleasure of bumping into an idol. Queuing for coffee behind Karen Russell was enough to wake me up one early morning, and seeing Claudia Rankine stroll through the center was a thrill, to say the least. Yet it is these encounters that remind you what an open and encouraging community the literary one is. There are giants with inspiring stories and unbelievable talents, and they, like anyone from a small press or MFA program, are ready to stay up all night discussing poetry and wake themselves up with a free glass of bourbon in the bookfair.

Surprisingly, however, one of the most anticipated parts of AWP is not anything literary. If you have thousands of writers in the same small city, and stimulate them with enough Muses to last a lifetime, you can be sure that there will be no shortage of celebration once evening hits. Hundreds of creative types all dancing together with abandon is an incredible sight, and not one you would witness anywhere else. If the writing life ever seems dull, one need only remember the pick-up lines uttered that night: “You’re the magical to my realism,” “Do you want to be part of my memoir?” and my personal favorite, “So, what’s your genre?”

AWP is a wonderfully unique event, and a great source of inspiration, community and fun for any writer. I’ll see you in LA.

Josh King is a first year MFA student at Adelphi University, New York. He writes short stories and plays, and studied his undergraduate degree in London. His literary heroes include Bukowski, Camus and Martin Amis.

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