March 7, 2018

Seventh floor of the Westshore Grand. From my window I see down a long straight street to the towers of Tampa. At one time I would not have thought it too far to walk.

          

Arrived home after class last night in darkness, left this morning before light, so I didn’t have to see the great pine gone, nor the devastation wrought on my lawn by the heavy machinery and the rain. Ruination everywhere. Possibility everywhere.

          

8 PM: Taxi-ed to the Convention Center, got my catalog and credentials, sat beside the water of the Channel and watched the gliding pelicans. Have gone too long without watching the pelicans. My panel is F223: Taking up the Quill: Queer Representation through Writing Awards and Publication. My name is not on the list of panelists, of course. In fairness, the winner of the prize was known too late to get onto the documents. The fact is not consoling. I know I will love everyone. The Feminist tone of the conference is overwhelming—indeed, almost to the point of parody, especially since so many of the panels take as given the trope of female under-representation in the world of letters. All things balance in the end.