AWP and Finding Community in Publishing
It’s a big, small industry.
My daughter loves to read. If you have kids, you’ve probably noticed it’s effortless for them, the way they love stories. Turning pages. Not all kids are the same but most love books.
Most people lose that love as they grow up. Or their love of stories changes. I’m not bumbling enough to fall into the “Reading At Risk” trap—book-lovers aren’t going extinct—but most Americans don’t read. They work until their fingers bleed so they can afford rent and health insurance for their kids (who love to read). They watch HBO and Netflix. They play video games.
For context, when we talk about industries and revenue, keep in mind I don’t think the numbers are definitive of any argument, but we should know them. Hollywood is worth about $91.83 billion dollars. Video games are worth about $198.40 billion. Publishing clocks in at $25.71 billion. Small but big enough that publishers could afford to pay their talent. On March 11, 2022, a literary agent speculated that .5% of talent in publishing had resigned at once. One of the highest profile resignations was Molly McGhee at Tor, who wrote an open letter detailing her lack of opportunities for career advancement, long hours, and low pay, even after acquiring the bestselling The Atlas Six.
I don’t think books will vanish by the time my daughter gets out of school and starts her career. I doubt she’ll write or edit books, though, for many reasons—kids have to find their own way—but especially if trends in publishing continue. I doubt I’ll encourage her to follow in my footsteps.
The other day, my mom said to me, “I’m worried publishing is breaking your heart.”
Well, maybe. That’s kind of the point. Building a literary life in the twenty-first century means your choices might look like failures to other people (or even to you). I’m not giving up, so.
Instead, I’m happy and free and poor, traveling by plane to the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference, known to haters and devotees as AWP, one of the largest publishing conferences in the world, where something like 13,000 people will mill around the hotel bar, asking one another, “Are you an agent?” and, “Have you read the latest George Saunders Substack post?”
AWP combines publishing with the MFA and PhD creative-writing industrial complex. They’re separate but interlocking ecosystems: one hand turns the pages of the other. Writers sell books in New York and become tenured professors at whatever college. Their students attend lectures by visiting authors and buy books. Eventually, those students will write their own books, teach their own classes. AWP is the overlapping part of the circles on the Venn diagram of MFA vs. NYC.
The conference itself combines a lot of things: the thrill of new friends; the loneliness of being one frail human person in a vast world of talent; the despair of looking into young writers’ faces as they search for someone—anyone—who will read their unpublished work; the panicky feeling you get (plus the joy and defiance) from spending money you don’t have on books you won’t read.
I haven’t returned to AWP since they had it in Portland. Before that, I went to Tampa, Minneapolis–Saint Paul, Chicago, and Denver. I’ve been to the quirky off-site readings, the party-inside-the-party for VIPs, the keynote speeches by book-world luminaries. I’ve worked the tables at the bookfair; I’ve been drunk in the hotel bar. My feelings about AWP are complicated. I have a lot of questions but not a lot of answers. I have criticisms. I have condemnations. I know the toxic side of the money, power, access, and alcohol at AWP. You can’t discount it.
Yet despite everything, I have fun, too, because most of the people at the conference are kind and open and love books. They’re my type of people—and that’s why we come together, because we’re looking for the same things in life. We want to form a community. We want to celebrate writing as art and entertainment. I love being around people who love books. I need that human connection. I love seeing my friends, people I’ve met in the industry; I love meeting new people, too. Seeing all the creativity on display. The literary world is small enough you can’t throw stones, because everyone knows one another, but it’s large enough you can find your people. The people who share your ambitions, dreams, sensibilities, sense of humor. People who value what you value.
I never lost my love of books. I hope my daughter doesn’t lose it either, but only time will tell, and I can’t live her life for her—as long as she’s happy, I’ll be happy, too. Right now I’m content to close my laptop and open a novel. It won’t be long until I’m in Philadelphia with thousands of other writers. People who, like me and my friends, never lost their love for books. I hope I see you there.
