As I
slipped the mask of the Swamp Ape over my head, the mild-mannered poet who says
“Excuse me” in crowded bars, nervously checked Waze every five feet between the
Air BnB and the Washington Convention Center, and smiled at each visitor who
asked, “What the hell is a Swamp Ape?” at our book fair table – that person
disappeared. For 15 minutes, I swaggered, photo-bombed, entered literary
magazine raffles by signing “SWAMP APE” to the small yellow tickets, and sat
down to lunch with strangers who tried not to appear startled at my swampish
ghillie suit and gorilla mask.
This
is a convenient anecdote, because it also works as a metaphor for the
transformative power large groups can have on an internal perspective. I would
never don the Swamp Ape costume in my home (or admit it if I did), but with an
audience, it seems natural. Similarly, writing alone can feel self-indulgent.
If you write as I do, balancing your laptop on your ripped sweatpants at 2 p.m.
with a piece of stale cake on the nightstand, you may see yourself from the
outside and wonder if you’re delusional. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the
hordes of literary magazines publishing work you admire and wonder whether
anyone needs your voice.
The imposter syndrome is
common and shared. Thousands of writers, who are stereotyped as being highly
sensitive, solitary creatures, trekked again this year to AWP to brave crowded
terminals where there are never enough free phone chargers, planes where free
snacks are no longer complimentary and one can catch a virus from just
unbuckling the seatbelt, trains that make too many stops, Ubers, too-small
hotels - these writers walked half a mile through the chilly and strange streets of DC to
a convention center full of strangers and projectors that fail just before each
panel presentation begins.
But
we went anyway. We went because walking by the brick buildings and art
galleries of DC reminded us what it’s like to be in the honeymoon phase of a
romance with a city. And we went to the mixer because while writers are terrible
dancers, the lack of inhibition by the flailers on the dance floor was inspiring.
We saw that thousands of other writers also prioritized their writing enough to
make the same trek and don a lanyard.
AWP was a reminder that
while the fact that so many writers exist means the market is flooded, it also gives us permission to value writing in our own lives as well. It’s both humbling and
energizing to realize that writing, while done in isolation, can also take
place in a larger community. And so, though I will likely not don the Swamp Ape
costume again, when feeling inadequate or foolish, I can put on the
metaphorical costume of a writer making the awkward trek to AWP, remember that
far away, others are doing the same with their lanyards tucked in drawers, and
for a moment, it seems we do this together.
Kathleen Martin is a second-year MFA and is on staff
at Swamp Ape Review. Her digital literacy creation, Between Memories
(betweenmemories.com), explores the relationship between memory and memory loss
through interviews, surveys, art, and erasure poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment