About a week before asking Erin if I could write about her party over Instagram DMs, I told her I was writing a Substack where I review parties. Erin riffed on what I might write about her— “this girl with grown-out roots won’t stop talking to me,” she mused. It was at that moment that I decided that I liked Erin. She seems fun. She has a sense of humor and self-awareness—the trappings of an enjoyable writer. I hear she’s about to move to New York City. That’s a shame. We’re always losing clever, fun-loving women to that city.
On Saturday night, Erin and Brittany, who belong to a writing collective called Car Crash Collective, are throwing an AWP afterparty in conjunction with Rose Books and Clash Books. I tell a friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, that I am attending the event, and she retorts, “I don't know what any of those words mean.” (Good for her.) Another friend told me she imagined many people in attendance would be ugly. This friend also chooses to remain anonymous, but I guarantee if you met her, you would love her— the kind of girl who would spit in your face and leave you smiling.
Erin and Brittany are two brilliant and stylish LA-based writers at the throbbing center of the L.A. literary scene. They make having a career in writing seem like a party, glamorous even—something that hasn’t been true in decades. They’re cool without posturing, intelligent while maintaining friendliness. Everything I’ve read of theirs, I’ve loved. (Same for Chelsea Hodson— I’m a massive fan!) For years, their reputation preceded them, almost Gatsby-like in its reach. Whenever I introduced myself as a writer to a particular milieu of Silverlake tattooed (aspiring-whatever) cool-girl, they would respond, “Are you friends with those Car Crash Collective girls?”
So, it’s Saturday night. The party occurred at Bar Henry in Echo Park, with a staggering line to enter that spilled into the street. On Partiful, over 100 people RSVPed, including a collaborator of Milo Yiannopoulos, according to my friend—I didn't investigate, but I’ll take his word for it. (“AWP gone wild,” I overhear a woman say.) I am waiting for a friend to arrive when I catch whispers of a conversation in line– someone mistook a short story for magical realism, but it wasn't. I wonder: do I sound like that when I talk?
Erin, one of the party's hosts, passes out White Claws to everyone waiting in line. It’s a charming stunt. The turnout is impressive. Plus, the stars are out, if people who write autofiction about their bad sex lives could ever be considered stars. As the line advances, I spot a lone watermelon-colored elf bar vape on a table. It reminds me of a man who broke my heart. The bouncer who checks our IDs has a stack of books on his stool, the one on top: The Cult in My Garage. I ask him why they’re there. Writers have been gifting the bouncer books to bribe him into letting them in. When people tell you who they are, believe them.
So what’s inside this bar that every young writer, publisher, and book agent apparently wants to get into? Well, there’s a congested line to get a martini, brimming with men talking about their next novel. I spot a Joan Didion tote bag in the corner. A woman is wearing a Baggu purse that I also own– the white one that resembles a swan, the type of accessory you buy if you’re a yearning, quirky woman who writes. One person has a paper fan that reads, “Writers are hot.” (Not the good ones.) I speak to two men, both strangers and strange men, who tell me about their novels. They’re perfectly nice. One man urges me to read a synopsis of his novel on his phone. It’s about turmoil in the Middle East told from one American’s perspective (I think?). I read the first sentence and blacked out. I can’t read off bizarre men’s phones on a Saturday night anymore. I just turned thirty.
To give context for the party, I’ll have to figure out what AWP is– something I only recently learned about despite having a marginally successful career in journalism and an MFA. This year in Los Angeles, the AWP attracted twelve thousand attendees to its writer conference, with tickets selling at several hundred dollars. It’s part book fair, part state of the industry for publishing, and part networking event. I have a friend– once again, redacted name– who attended at twenty-three in an MFA program and swore never to return. She’s allergic to nervous networking energy and desperation.
Everything has annoyed me recently. Ironically, I have never been in a better mood. The night before, I attended a fun AWP-related house party. I hardly knew anyone. My favorite person at the party was out of his mind—the type of writer every person in an MFA program has a rollicking story about. He’s the man you sleep with on the worst day of your life. I mean this as a compliment. My friend told me an urban legend about his career that he negated at the party. He broke some hearts, told some lies, and repeated some good gossip. He floats across the party alone; being a good time is a lonely business. I promised to read his writing, starting with the story in The Paris Review. I wonder how many women leave a party vowing to read his writing.
As the AWP x Car Crash Collective x Rose Books party ended, I asked my friends who I attended with if I should cut all my hair off. They run their fingers through my hair. It looks great, they rave. Never cut it! I know, I know! I’m not going to cut it. These are my usual girlish antics. I’m always out on a Saturday night, asking questions I already know the answer to.
one day someone will explain what awp stands for