02/07/2006: "AWP Conference"

Hi All,

Next month I’m heading down to a conference in Texas—the Association of Writers and Publishers. It’s the result of a chance meeting with a friend of mine from school, who I ran into on the streets of New York last spring when I was down for the Book Expo. Bizarre that we should meet, but it’s great because now I get to head down to Te-has and hang out with three old pals, including my old roommate Tony—or as we called him, Mighty Ton-Ton. Fellow Star Wars nerds will remember Ton-Tons as those horse-kangaroo creatures; Luke Skywalker cut one of their bellies open and slept inside it in The Empire Strikes Back. Our house was never cold enough that I considered cutting Tony’s belly open and sleeping in it, but he’s such an obliging sort I’m sure he’d have let me.

Tony: You want to sleep inside my belly?

Me: This house is pretty chilly, in case you haven’t noticed.

Tony: I know, but...gosh, cut my belly open? That’s asking quite a lot.

Me: Are you my buddy or not?

Tony: Well, of course, you know that.

Me: I don’t know where you come from, but where I come from buddies let buddies slit their bellies open and sleep inside!

Tony: Oh, okay. Please take your boots off, though.

Anyway, it will be great to see ole Ton-Ton again, and Charmaine (Char-Char Binks) and Katrine (she never had a Star Wars-related nickname, that I can recall). I didn’t have a Star Wars nickname, either; mine was Suitcase Murphy—a character from that movie, The Sting. I might publish my next book under that name.

The thing is, it looks as though I’ll be writing some sort of essay for a panel I’m sitting on: “Are we there yet? Arriving at the end in postmodern short stories.”

Blast! Double blast!

You see, I told myself I’d never write an academic paper ever again. After I finished my MA I said, “No more, academia! You’ve sucked the life essence out of me long enough!” Of course, there being no physical personification of academia to yell this at, I screamed it on a busy street corner, thus looking, I’m sure, like a deranged street person.

Okay, so I didn’t scream it at all, at a statue or a person or anyone at all; but this was my internal thinking. No PhD—not EVER! I applied to a few MFA programs, thinking it would give me 2 extra years to write plus situate me for certain teaching jobs; and that’s worked out really well, because, other than workshop, I have zero academic obligations. This is the way I like it.

And now, like a character in some awful gangster movie, I’ve been pulled back into the life! It’s Chinatown, I tell you—except in this town everyone wears tweed blazers with elbow patches or frumpy dresses, everyone’s office smells of books and burnt coffee, and they all have Cup-a-Soup noodles stuck in their beards—the men AND women!

Okay, so that was mean. Of course I don’t mean female academics have beards! And I’d better watch out, as I may end up in one of those departments one day, with my own bookish smell, my own straggly beard, my own Cup-a-Soup noodles. All I’m saying is, I’ve had enough of pure academics, the presentations and essays and grant proposals, etc. I want shut of it. But now it seems as though I must don my thinking cap again—I’m sure it won’t fit right anymore, as my brain has no doubt shrunk due to lack of stimulus. It’s probably the size of a chimpanzee’s by now.

Initially, when my friend brought up the idea of my having to present a paper, I said I could not—and really, I’ve got deadlines I still need to meet, so I won’t be able to spend too much time on this. I basically said, “Well, I can go up and ramble on for ten minutes, unscripted, then we can go get drunk.” (The panel is at 9:30 am). She was like, “If you want to look like an ass, I guess I won’t stop you.” I was all, “Hey, that’s great—I ENJOY looking like an ass! It’s win-win!”

But now I’ve gotten word from WW Norton that I’ll be doing a signing afterwards, which means my performance at the panel is slightly more crucial. Before I was just a random nincompoop; now I’m a nincompoop representing Norton, and my collection. Although maybe going up there and making a fool of myself would work to my benefit. Maybe people watching will be like, “He’s a complete and utter jackass, his brain can’t be much bigger than a chimpanzee’s, and yet he’s somehow managed to write an entire book! He is a medical marvel! What a cipher this Davidson is; I simply MUST buy his book!”

As I’m doubtful this would happen, I guess I’d better whip something up.

If anyone reading this is going to be in Austin for the AWP, be sure to stop by the signing table and sit a spell. Or if you see me reeling drunk through the streets of Austin, feel free to challenge me to a staring contest, or thumb wars.

The schedule is as follows:

“Are we there yet? Arriving at the end in postmodern short stories”
Friday, March 10, 2006 9:00-10:15AM

Afterwards: signing at WW Norton booth. 10:30AM until they give me the boot.

All best, Craig.