Center for Fiction

I went to a reading at the Center for Fiction last night. Fourteen readers from their publication, The Literarian. I knew no one there, grabbed some nuts and pretzels and settled in. By the third reader I was glancing around the room, imagining my Cheez-It snack when I got home. I just can't listen to other writers reading. Here and there I'll pick up a metaphor or turn of phrase and nod in appreciation. But overall, even with good readers, I find myself checking my watch.
Why go to these things? I may meet someone who might help me with my own career. Some of the readers were also editors. One woman had 14 books published. I wanted to drop to my knees in front of her.
Outside, all around me, sitting on curbs, blocking the sidewalk, perched on fire escapes, atop cars, dozens of writers with open laptops or notebooks, typing and scribbling away, composing short stories, poems, memoirs. Thousands of words being churned out by the minute by frenzied, bedraggled, smelly, wild eyed people who simply HAD to get their stories out there. I ducked back inside where the hobnobbing was in full force, but I could sense tension building. Writers flexing their fingers, nodding quickly, jittery, impatient, NEEDING to get back to their stories. Conversation is a buffer, nothing more. As one reader, Tracy O'Neill, described a skater's drive in her novel, here was "the violence of ambition."
I rushed home, went right to my computer and got to work. Not before pouring a bowl of Cheez-Its. I know my real priority.