July 28, 2013

Bright sun after an unpromisingly overcast morning. I spent part of the morning driving home from Winston-Salem, from the North Carolina Writers’ Conference. I had thought to escape yesterday morning (having been convinced by the open-mike that I had made a terrible mistake) but was prevented by what the TV represented as the worst downpour in modern times. So, through it I went, and, on balance, I’m glad I stayed. Because of the rain, I didn’t get to know the intriguing environs of my motel as well as I’d like, but I caught up with old acquaintances, and was re-introduced to a hundred people who knew me, apparantly had history with me, and whom I didn’t know from Adam. This is a significant and perplexing flaw. I think I have an excellent memory, and though I remembered all the incidents they described vividly, I didn’t remember that they were part of them. Did remember AD, who recalled the incident when I came to her hotel door “in his youthful blond beauty” and she thought I had been sent as a companion. I recount that because it’s the only anecdote I know which references my youthful blond beauty. The panels and presentations were good, if pointedly regional. Keith’s was brilliant. There was a lot of homage to various figures in the history of NC literature, making me wonder what exactly made one venerable in our eyes. The gods of our state literary pantheon are often quite good, but none living or recently dead would be included in a national list. Maybe Fred Chapell. Dee James is in the café, and I asked her about this and she pointed out that all such gatherings become a reunion of old friends, who wait for it in order to reconnect, and when there talk about the same things they’ve talked about for thirty years. I myself attended exactly 29 years ago, and never after. That should have told me something. Perhaps the criteria have something to do with subject matter, for all lauded writers (by this group) write about long ago back on the farm. Such petty careerism and one-upping! Such pride in being a “professional” without reference at all to inspiration or necessity.  I think that’s why I abandoned it thirty years ago. Next year it’s in Asheville, I think, and that mey be the reason to go again.

Additionally, I was reminded of what I consistently identify as the big mistake in my career. I call it the failure to network, but it’s worse than that. I had no mentors, and hence no one to give me a boost or get me through a closed door or make the significant introduction. Every story about Morgan and other honorees starting out brims with lucky breaks or grace by means of mentor. I have had a few of the first, maybe, but none of the second. I have sometimes succeeded because of excellence, but never once because of affection, and affection is by far the mightier force. I don’t even think of this as evil, actually, but merely perplexing. When Roy Cohn starts his rant in Angels in America about being a good son, I feel he’s right, and know that there I failed. I have been a far better father than I have been a son. I have been a mentor even if I never had one. This is a kind of salvation.