King of the Mountain

So, I've made the decision: conference it is. In July, I'll head to Sewanee, to the University of the South, to take advantage of the scholarship offered, the experienced (and best: new!) readers of my work, and the change of pace.

The last two nights, I've tossed more than I've slept. Today, while chalking a list on the board, I wrote 1), 2), 3), 5). Who can blame my students for laughing, for pointing?

Thing is, for a few reasons this was a difficult decision for me. More than letting go of my roadtrip plans, I'm replacing them with a potentially-unsettling experience. I realize that I need to go into it with another mindset altogether, but for now, I'll air it.

Anytime a group of professional and striving-to-be professional anybodies gather, there's bound to be automatic categorization. Who's here on a fellowship? Who's here on a scholarship? What kind of scholarship? Do you have a book? Best pubs? And on and on. I'm not in love with those groupings. I'm not in love with anything that resembles a pissing contest among highly-literate and educated people.

This is all to say, I want not to go up this mountain to peg, to be pegged, to backbite or fight for who's best. Not even just because I'd rank so low on the pole, but because it defeats the purpose of the writing conference/workshop.

One of the first things I'm careful to do in any of my writing classes is to begin by making others feel welcome and equal. Writing is such a delicate process, and our egos are like the wires in a lightbulb. We must be gentle with others, and we must be handled with care. Certainly this isn't to say that I'm not an armadillo. I am. People can say all kinds of things about my work---in fact, I welcome it. Rip it up...teach me! But don't dog me to your group of cronies because I'm at a conference where I know no-one, and my book still doesn't have an estimated publication date.

There, that was my soft underbelly.

Anyway, I'm hoping that I've made the right decision. Everyone's been really supportive--friends, fellow poets, my department (they're allowing me to throw out my original grant proposal and apply the funds toward the travel and conference costs not covered by my scholarship), and my dad.

My dad said, "You know, Lisa, it's an honor. You don't just say, oh, hey, thanks for liking my writing, thanks for offering me the money, but nah, I'll pass. You don't just do that."

It's sort of nice to see my dad get excited for me--a man who (as I've written here before) isn't necessarily easily-impressed or emotionally-shaken often.

So, I'll make the most of it, even if it means whipstitching my lips if--and when--the jockeying for position begins.