Mike Karpa

OK, OK, pulled that situation back. I found the small-press editor at breakfast and apologized. We had the meeting over scrambled eggs. It was good, relaxed. I’m not rested, but maybe being rested fries my brain. But there is something else going on. Am I too relaxed? My roommate said he would introduce me to his agent. Of course I said yes. But I am not jumping up and down inside. I think I maybe genuinely would rather do this–book production and sales–myself. I kind of think I could do a really good job at it. Publishing, that is.

Also, I did tell the editor about the explicit sex in my book, why it was there, and asked if I would fare better by removing it. I expected him to say yes. He said no. It was an interesting discussion that I have wanted to have with a book editor for a long while.

One way of looking at the editor meeting today is that he passed on all three books. Disappointing. And when I look at their book list, I don’t know why I chose him. I think it was because you can’t submit without an invitation, so this was my only way to get one. Only it wasn’t.

On the other hand, I really got a lot of behind the scenes questions answered. Another answer was that Criminals would interest him if it was more of a thriller. And from my end, that I don’t know where I would throw a dead body, so I would rather write a new thriller from scratch—if I were to do that. (Would probably take the same time and be better.) Those long-term answers have lasting value. Less second guessing going forward?

Fireworks? What fireworks are these? I hear fireworks from my sweltering top-floor room (uncooled, and less importantly at the moment, unheated) but cannot see the explosions.

I now feel the conference is more gold than dross–a switch from the early days, when the simultaneous sameness/alienness was hard to rise above–though the vast bulk is in between: using your noggin to learn things. Mainly in the workshop with Anna Menéndez and fellow Deepak Unnikrishnan, who have turned out to be the perfect match for me. Anna Menéndez is a dead ringer for a good friend of mine, so much so that I have to keep telling myself she is not Petra. Deepak Unnikrishnan is of Indian background but grew up and lives in Dubai, making me wish I had submitted pages from my India novel, or at least a short story set in the Gulf, of which I have two in a drawer somewhere. Hang on–the pages I submitted WERE set in India. So the folks matching writers with workshops have done a great job. Reading about them before coming, they seemed too perfect, so it’s a surprise to find that they actually are. I’m very excited. Both write in the same multinational drift that I do, and both laughed when I said that in the throes of graduate school I used to go to the airport and hang out to relax. After a good night of sleep, things are better.

Today I am seeing that, though the hierarchies and challenges are as I described, this is also a reflection of the ways we have available to put together a writing life. The academic way predominates, but many other ways are present as well, and inside the writers’ heads perhaps the differences are less stark. There is some pretty telling pressure to be positive. Love you, love your work.

OK, off to the 23rd reading of the conference, 10pm in the barn!

Oops. Got so wrapped up in trying to print my pages for the reading–which meant retyping them from scratch–that I missed my editor appointment. I think I actually walked right by the guy–an editor from a small press–at more or less the right time. I thought it was tomorrow. Perhaps a subliminal message from the old psyche: I am just pretending to have hope. I also talked informally (seated next to each other at a reading) to the agent I will be meeting later and I was not nervous at all. It was pleasant because at heart I know it doesn’t matter. Maybe this is what I’ve really come here to learn. 

Yeah, I don’t like the sound of that at all. Pleasant: good. No mattering: not good.

Another morning standing in line for craft classes instead of breakfast. I am hoping for Cristina Garcia and tomorrow for Ingrid Rojas Contreras. Workshopped by Ana Menendez. Hmmm, a trend has developed. Cultivating my inner Latino (such as it is)? Staying inside my comfort zone?

One chatty breakfast and good lecture (best of the three so far) later. I did get Cristina Garcia, notable to me mainly because I had heard of her before. Top takeaway: Before sitting down to write prose, read a poem. It puts you in a fresh state of mind.

I’ve redone the non-fiction piece again–I’m not doing the Red Dot opening–and really need to find a way to print it up. The computer center will not read the file I brought off my thumb drive, so I am retyping everything. It’s fortunately short. Did I say that I am the lead-off slot in the lgbtq reading? Bright light, podium, likely big crowd? So, no pressure. OK, yes, I did mention that. Super duper intimidating, but going for it. Tomorrow is a slow day and it will be very much appreciated. Nap anticipated. 

After lunch. I’m thinking over the waiters reading. It drew a huge crowd, and ironically gave me a bit of confidence. I don’t think my piece is worse than some (most) of those, and they are the big rising talents. Listening to the work, I can’t tell who has a book coming out from a big-five publisher, and who has zero track record.

At today’s publication related event, an editor or agent said something to the effect that the people who have the hardest time getting published in fiction now are straight white men. To a lesser extent, straight white women. Say what? Have things shifted that much, and when? Hello, hello! I’m neither of those. Over here! Over here!

I’m hearing a lot about colonies, residencies, fellowships and so forth. It has cultish overtones. Several people have asked me how BL (I’m using insider abbreviations now, first sign of cult induction) is different from others conferences, or just my impressions. But they then seemed uncomprehending at my answers: it’s more academic, job-fairish, an unfamiliar culture. I am supposed to say its more magical, I think, inclusive, overflowing with love. They really seem very confused. Do they not see that many people here are trying to land teaching slots after their MFAs, and such? Or place articles? Or promote articles and books? I am not trying to be disagreeable, honestly, but I do note that the uncomprehending seem to be contributors with titled slots that come with subsidies: “Waiters,” “Scholars,” “Fellows.” It seem the whole enterprise looks different if you pay for it. It’s not that it’s NOT overflowing with love; it’s more a question of what that love gets you when someone more powerful wants your piece of pie (literally).

The look of sheer, dumb incomprehension is fairly remarkable. It mirrors the one when I mentioned all the NPR stations. I should take a picture. It’s like there was an orientation, and I missed it. Actually, I probably was sent a link and an invitation to ask any questions I had, and I didn’t. Still, I can’t help feel I’ve done something wrong; is it really so necessary to pretend? (Um, yes.)

I check the bookstore, where I placed three copies of the fresh new magazine (Tahoma Literary Review) with my story in it (entitled “Because of Course: An Award-winning Story”). I sold a copy of the book! [It turns out later it’s to my two local friends,  but they really liked it, asked me to sign it (and introduced me to Ilya Kominsky, who was so great–his are the poems I plan to read, a la Christina Garcia).]

In the morning, my roommate and I swap stories from yesterday. “Fifty thousand?” he says. “That’s a good match because I want to sell fifty thousand.”

Har har. That’s the spirit.

A slot opens up with another agent who has rejected me multiple times, going back decades. I said (mentally) no thanks. Moving on. She was actually on the panel at San Francisco Writers Conference where we read first pages and I got a round of applause after managing to read through without interruption, the first to do so, and ultimately one of only two. But I didn’t get a glimmer of recognition at SFWC when I talked to her and I won’t get it here either.

I am now at the Waiters’ reading, in the barn at 10pm, a beer in hand that is both welcome and tasty. Young people enthusiasm! Audience enthusiasm! They are enjoying themselves. I am showing up in gratitude for their service. Plus, three are in my workshop, and I like all three. The crowd is huge and enthusiastic as well, which is something, because everyone is already looking a bit ragged, and, wow, a 10:00PM start time. I’m not a night owl, but cheers! Beers! It’s great fun.

This morning I will get to battle the hordes to sign up for the lgbt reading, as well as the craft classes. Yesterday over 100 eager writers lined up for the craft slots, filling the lobby of what used to be a hotel when it was constructed in the late 1800s. Today, the first readings sign-ups go on the bulletin board.

I checked out the spot where we will line up for a go at the sign-up sheets after breakfast, even though I’ve checked it out at least five times already. After a few days talking to folks I have learned the number of people vying for the 15 queer slots will be considerable. Already I know that every letter of the acronym seems to be represented (except perhaps the A), a far, far cry from my times at Squaw Valley, where one year I was the only queer person of any description (that I could find). Here, there are dozens! Dare I say it: we are proportionally represented. It’s shocking. Same seems to go for people of color. I’m not sure about the proportional bit for POC, but the selection committee seems to have opened the doors. I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I realize that I’ve been breathing shallow since I got here. (I have a CPAP machine that I find of doubtful utility. I left it at home.) I take a deep breath.

There are readings for contributors in general, and I debate whether to sign up for one of these, in case I can’t get an lgbt spot. I get to read about three pages, and I want to read. Or rather, I want to make myself read. I don’t actually want to be in the spotlight, so to speak, but I know I need to stretch. I’ve paid too much to be here to just slink around. (For those of us who are not on some kind of subsidy–that is not “Waiters,” “Scholars”, “Fellows,” or members of a few miscellaneous tiny categories, the cost is extremely high.) I am actually miffed to learn that the faculty and fellows can also sign up for the lgbt reading (though not the general contributor ones). Faculty and fellow already have readings of 15-30 min, while Waiters and Scholars get 5 mins, so why elbow us aside for the 3-min slots? The fact that there may be too many people for those slots is astounding, but true. I meet more potential readers over breakfast. I will never be able to talk about not be included again. My god, how will my shoulders survive without that chip!

Again over 100 line up for the craft slots, but I easily get a slot. In fact, I am #1, which works with the non-fiction piece really well. Score one for neuroticism! It’s about speaking at a meeting–entitled “Do You Have a Plan”–so it’s a good opener for a reading. I was there when the list went up. And I have circled back several times. Six hours later, the list is still not full, even with the faculty and fellows, so now I am not annoyed at all, just aware of how focused on this I am. 15 slots at a conference with 200 participants: why was I even worried? Now I am nervous about kicking off the reading with an audience of 100+, for I have learned it will not be in a basement room, as I had thought, but in the main hall, at 5:00PM. Under an actual, not metaphorical spotlight. And I realize now I could have put my name in any spot, not just the first available line. So I basically chose to go first. Gulp.

Just went to the editor/agent panel and man was it a drag. Same old, same old. I will later have one-on-one meetings with an agent and an editor; this wasn’t that. (In the online sign-ups with agents, I chose mine because she was the only one who hadn’t already rejected me. Literally everyone else has rejected one, twice, or even three times, and one of those in a rather cruel way. (I think about confronting him, but decide to let it go. You have to let these things go.))

So just to be persistent, because you have to be persistent, I did pitch to two panelists: an editor and an agent. The editor (Graywolf) said send the mss, but then I asked the agent standing next to her, behind the panel’s table, if I should bother with the new book considering she rejected the last two. The editor (the editor!) leaned over, abandoning her own conversation, and said forcefully “move on.”

I was kind of shocked. No, I was shocked, no “kind of” about it. But also relieved. It’s hard to know sometimes when to call it a day, and I was not looking forward to sending this agent another letter. [Note: Later, when I get home, I will discover that I never heard anything from this agent in the past, not even a form rejection, so I probably could hit her up again. There are only a limited number of agents that handle lgbt stuff. We don’t have the same choices a, say, straight white woman has, and I used that example because I checked, and this editor and agent are both straight white women and their lists are full of their cohorts.]

At that point I was honestly reluctant to even talk to the agent, so no loss, but now I feel I should move on from Graywolf, too, now that the editor has heard my tale of rejection-woe. Is sending the mss to Graywolf a waste of time? My time matters too, after all.

So I go back to my room and read my two potential pieces for the reading. I rewrite the non-fiction piece. I’m still carrying my marked up pages with me when I go to the afternoon faculty reading, where I learn Bread Loaf records everything. This includes the lgbt reading (Wednesday of the second week). So, no pressure. Afterwards I make it to the first basement reading by contributors (that’s us in the “all other” category) and notice the Random House editor (from the earlier panel) attending the participant readings. So, no pressure. At the panel, she said they only buy books that they think will sell at least 50,000 copies. I stopped listening thereafter.

At dinner, I stand in the dessert line. Besides the small plates of pecan pie line (incidentally, Vermont seems to be spice free), a woman wants to trade slices with me. (Mine is smaller.) Rather than bite her head off (I picked it because it was smaller!), I said Aren’t you the Graywolf editor? It was she! I asked: Since you said I should move on from the agent, should I also move on from you? She replied, Well we haven’t rejected you. Send it! I gave her the pie.

Yay! And sheesh. Emotional roller coaster.

[And for the record, I will later send her the novel, and I will never hear anything back from her, or anyone at Graywolf, in any way shape or form.]

It’s action packed. I am tired already, but so is everyone else. So much talking. It’s like a night at a disco. I am hoarse in the mornings as I wait for the coffee urns to be declared open. (I’m still an early riser, despite a three-hour time change in the wrong direction.)

I am finding many connections to people I know, but not necessarily people who are in my wheelhouse. Their tastes are quite different; their ambitions are quite different. The connections are not to the writers I feel closest to; they are more the opposite. It’s that same thing I have encountered at other literary conferences and events. I pretend to enjoy myself—love you, love your work—but they really are enjoying it. I remember the shock I felt when I first realized that. Well, at least I’ve learned that much. I vow to not be snarky and instead respect that the audience for the work of the high fallutin’ is huge. There are a lot of people here. I can find my people, because they are most assuredly here somewhere. Live and let live.

Lots of references to books and authors, virtually none of whom I’ve read. Pretty academic. Like, extremely. Lots of teachers. But, I remind myself, I am technically a teacher, too (if only part-time), and technically a teacher means I am a teacher. The nonfiction side seems fascinating. (I kind of wish I’d gone that way, but only kind of.) It’s fun to see the faces of the people behind the pages in my group. I wonder what they make of me: I puled a switcheroo, submitting straightforwardly literary pages to get in, but the opening of a SciFi manuscript (a novel, Red Dot) to workshop. Nobody is radically different from what I imagined. I appear to be the only LGBT person among the 14. The streak remains unbroken. My big goal at this conference is not to land an agent, or secure a famous author blurb, or to learn why British people love comma splices. It is to score a slot in the LGBT reading. Whether I will read from Red Dot or a non-fiction piece I brought remains undecided.

The campus itself is gorgeously rustic—picture barns in fields, where the fields are lush and the barns painted yellow (goldenrod? golden something). Everything is well organized. My roommate last night warned me of his sleep disorder—he sometimes wakes in the night in panic talking about an emergency—and said if I told him everything is OK, he will be fine in about a minute. I let him know that at LitCamp, I (apparently) was screaming in my sleep, so my concerned roommate there woke me up. That gave my new roommate a chuckle and he slept like a baby.

Vermont is hot! But cool at night. Not sleeping terrific, but my standards are low so let’s say I am not bothered. Unless my roommate tells otherwise…writers conference can provoke bouts of screaming. For now, honest-to-god crickets are chirping.

The “arriving” starts the day before, with an Aug 13 touchdown in Montreal, whose airport has been renamed since my last visit. “Dorval” is no more. I have a lot of psychological build-up for the conference, not just because, hey, it’s fun to travel, but because my key reason for applying was that Alexander Chee was teaching.

This was big, because I’d been to a number of writing conferences and never once has there been a queer man of any description on the teaching faculty. (Do conferences have “faculty?”) So, unlike the other places I applied for that summer, for Bread Loaf I sent a work featuring a straight white woman as protagonist. I mean, I wanted to get in! (To everywhere else, I sent pieces featuring gay men. I got in nowhere. This is a recurring theme in my life. And by recurring theme I mean ironclad rule. So far.)

Now, I know this is in some sense irrational, because you can learn from everyone and there are not enough gay writers around for every conference to have one. That’s a feature of being a minority: there are not a lot of you. And the esteemed Mr Chee wasn’t the only one. Christopher Castellani was teaching a workshop as well. I put them both on my list of four preferred workshop leaders, but got neither. I also didn’t get the lesbian author who was number 3. (I don’t think she showed.) I did, however, get my final choice, Ana Menéndez, and lest anyone think this was a disappointment, know that it was not. Having done this before, I knew that for me, there’s a lot of chance involved in getting someone good for you and I normally don’t ask for anyone in particular. I’ve on occasion done a ton of prep, reading everyone who would be there, and been disappointed or thrilled at learning who I was assigned for a workshop leader only to have the completely opposite reaction to the actual person. (In this case, it would be in between: I did get someone I wanted, and was very happy with my choice. More on this later.)

But Bread Loaf asked, so I did not overthink my answer beyond what I have just said. I confess here that there was in fact not a single person at this esteemed conference whose work I had read. (No, wait, I had read Alexander Chee’s latest essay collection, How to Write an Autobiographical Novel.)

I know, bad me (I guess). But if I feel like I was going somewhere I didn’t belong, it’s not totally surprising. On the trip down in my rental car (that was its own story of neurosis), I listen to the radio. All in French, then 50/50 French and English, then all English. And all NPR. Every little hamlet has its own radio station (it’s the mountains, I guess), and all of them were NPR. I let the radio seek stations on its own. It makes it all the way round the frequency band and every last one was an NPR station. I mention this to the folks working the registration desk when I arrive at Bread Loaf, beautiful in its fields of grass tucked in a bowl of mountains. No one laughs.

Uh oh, I think. This is going to be a long week…

Tahoma Literary Review has done me the honor of publishing a new piece, Because of Course: A Prize-wining Story (yes, that’s the title–it’s meta-fiction, I think), in which I rant against literary fiction–bridges are more exciting when they are burning—but then I succumb to niceness. You do have to pay to read this one, but for your $3.99 (ePub, PDF, Kindle) you get a whole magazine. (The print is $10.99 and lovely, in my opinion.) My bit is fairly deep into it. Woo hoo!

It’s more with trepidation than excitement that I say this, but I am going to Bread Loaf Writers Conference in August. It was exciting to be accepted in fiction, and then to also get accepted in non-fiction, but it came with a dose of my version of imposter syndrome: non-belongers syndrome. So what better reason to go than to get over that. Of course, I may be bringing it on myself, because I submitted a literary piece to get in, but sent a genre piece–gay SciFi romance–to actually be read and workshopped. We’ll see how that goes. Our workshop leader is Ana Menéndez, and the workshop fellow is Deepak Unnikrishnan, and hey, now I am getting excited.

I am delighted to announce that Play on Words has said yes to a shorter (considerably shorter) version of “Because of Course: A Prize-winning Story,” a meta-fiction piece that is forthcoming from Tahoma Literary Review this summer. That means I get to sit in the audience and enjoy someone else–an actor–read the piece. I will post the details when they are available, but I am thinking it will be at Cafe Stritch in San Jose.