Just under a week ago, I was alone overnight in the Detroit airport on my way home from The Association of Writers & Writing Programs’ annual conference, held this year in Manhattan. I didn’t plan it that way, but my connecting flight was canceled due to the weather, so I wrote from midnight until 4AM on Tuesday morning in a phone booth on my old Handpring (one of my favorite tech hand-me-downs from The Boyfriend).
While in New York, I met a slew of friends, writers, authors, and editors from all over the country, including: Susan Ito, Joy Castro, Raphael Kadushin, Ira Glass, Greg Gerard, and Heather Sellers.
One of my best “discoveries” at AWP was an author named Lorraine López who read from her work on two of the panels that I attended. Ridiculously talented and funny as hell, I look forward to reading her debut fiction collection, Soy la Avon Lady and Other Stories, as soon as I can.
Being in New York, however, is difficult for me because I feel like I’ve been fighting with its imperviousness for years and yet, when I visit, it’s business as usual, get out of my way, I’m trying to make a train and don’t really have the time, or the inclination, to help you find your family. It’s a matter of scale that seems to hammer home the impossibility of ever winning the court battle of “Michael Allen Potter vs. The Entire Fucking State of New York and Everyone In It.”