The Lessons of History, Now Tumbleable
In contemplating this year’s AWP conference (The Animus of Writing Peeps or something), I spent a few maudlin hours staring at my closet and fondling various black sweaters. I needed some clothes that would imply that I had the ability to read and write, but also that I was capable of basic social interaction. You know, an outfit that suggests, hey, I’ve never been published in The Paris Review, but only because I’ve never submitted.
You’re probably thinking, Deirdre, writers don’t dress alike. Self-presentation has nothing to do with the profession. But think harder: What do writers have in common? We are always cold due to our sensitive natures.
Are we always cold because of our embittered, under-published hearts? Or are we always cold because we wear our feelings like a fleshy outer layer, subjected to the harsh realities of employment and human interaction?