The Pen Is (Not) Mightier
by Nonfiction Editor Lily Pudlo
Personification of Justice by Marcantonio Raimondi
Last March, the Barnstorm team traveled to Seattle, WA for the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs Conference, more commonly known as “AWP.”
I had heard of AWP before working for Barnstorm, but this year was my first time attending the conference. As a young writer in an MFA program, the opportunity was euphoric. To be surrounded by thousands of other writers, readers, and creatives in the literary business was any emerging artist’s dream.
While waiting for AWP registration in a line that looped like a river through the cathedral-like main entrance of the Seattle Convention Center, I was overtaken by the masses of people here for the same purpose as me.
“Excuse me,” I asked an attendant, “Do you know how many people are here today?”
She scurried to an information desk to collect an answer. “We have about 10,000 registered for today, but more are bound to show this weekend.”
My stomach dropped. Ten thousand people?
Ten thousand people with which to connect, share ideas, and collaborate.
Ten thousand people with which to network, befriend, and impress.
Ten thousand people who could judge, ignore, and reject.
Seattle was over 3,000 miles from my small college town in New Hampshire, and nearly 45x the population when it wasn’t hosting the largest writing conference in North America. This was not my scene. Ten thousand bodies buzzed throughout the basement Exhibit Hall, each with their own unique and creative genius that surely outweighed mine. Hundreds upon hundreds of tables stacked in neat rows throughout the room were decorated in literary magazine banners, university MFA program handouts, and books by acclaimed authors.
A friend told me that one of the best parts of AWP was walking around the Book Fair talking to people, but standing in the space, unable to hear my thoughts over the chatter of writers sharing stories and making deals, I wanted to get back on the plane and go home. I, an unpublished, 23-year-old writer wannabe, wouldn’t make it in this world of ten thousand professionals.
My anxiety tempted me to hide in a corner and suck on a free lollipop snagged from a small indie-publisher’s booth, but my people-pleasing genes won out. A fellow Barnstorm staffer asked if I wanted to walk around the Book Fair with him, and I agreed to stroll from table to table.
As we walked, I played with a sword necklace that hung around my neck. I wore it when I wanted to brave. Here at this conference of ten thousand people in a city I’d never been to, the necklace was a small comfort. I held the sword with one hand, and with the other I exchanged business cards with publishers, signed up for newsletters, and took free stickers. One man representing a small literary journal even gave me free cup of wine. The Book Fair was a carnival, a place for people to wow and dazzle anyone who walked by their table, but the routine got old after a while. Everyone had the same selling point: we don’t know what we like until we see it, but it better be marketable! I didn’t want to talk about the capitalistic side of the literary world. I just wanted to talk writing.
I parted with my friend and decided to find that quiet corner and lollipop. But then, something caught my ear – the clicking of a typewriter. I used to have a typewriter. My parents got it as a present for my fifteenth birthday when I took my first AP English class. I hadn’t used it in years. The click, clack, click was nostalgic. I followed it through the crowd until I found a lean man with thick gray-blond hair hunched over the tiniest typewriter I had ever seen. His fingers beat at the keys like a master pianist, the click, clack, click a siren song. A woman sat in a chair opposite him. I noticed a sign on his small desk that read “FREE POEMS – any topic!”
I waited for the woman in the chair to receive her poem.
“What was your topic?” I asked.
She smiled. “The moon! It’s always spoken to me. It has so much meaning.”
I smiled back and took a seat in the chair. When the man asked what topic I had in mind, I could only think of one answer.
“A sword.”
The man grinned and got to work, clicking and clacking while I sat and played with my necklace. I secretly hoped that, like my necklace, maybe this poem would give me courage. Maybe this poem would magically make it easy for me to navigate this behemoth conference. Maybe this poem would inspire me to join the ten thousand here trying to make it in the literary world.
The sound of the typewriter ceased. The man handed me a yellowed piece of parchment with my poem.
SWORD
They say the pen
Is so much mightier
But really
Just feel, just lift one
The weight, the heft
The sheer power
Can you feel that?
And the choice is yours –
Use it to cut
To slice
Use it to protect
To go boldly
Where you’ve always feared
You can’t
With this
This cold hard strength
With this
You can go
anywhere
You can do
anything
And
Also
There is no sword
There never has been
There is only
Strong, powerful
You.
- Sean Petrie
Among the masses of ten thousand writers trying to make their way in this world of deals and numbers and selling points and pitches, Sean made me feel something genuine. With a poem that didn’t cost a dime, he’s the one of ten thousand that I remember from AWP.
Maybe I’ll never make it in the literary world. Maybe I’ll never make a cent from my writing. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I can write something someday for a stranger and have her walk away with my words feeling a little more understood.
Lily Pudlo is a second-year Nonfiction MFA Candidate at the University of New Hampshire and is the Nonfiction Editor for Barnstorm Journal. She often turns to the page when looking for answers to life's hardships, and she hopes to be honest and vulnerable in her writing to guide others as they navigate confusing and complicated experiences. Aside from writing, Lily enjoys rugby, Dungeons & Dragons, and woodland walks with their partner.
To view more work by Sean Petrie, you can visit his Instagram @seanjpetrie or go to his website www.seanpetrie.com.