Closing Thoughts

The circus is over and Frederick Busch has returned to upstate New York, where he will continue to write furiously in his barn and play with his chocolate lab. Today I have been sifting through the numerous things that have happened and been said in the last two days of many writers talking, talking, talking. Our good friend amorsecode, whose true identity I am begining to suspect (her name begins with a) asked what I thought about Busch's dislike of Everything is Illuminated and adoration of Zadie Smith. First, I think it is evident that Zadie Smith's picture on the back of White Teeth makes her appear hot indeed, and I cannot blame any conscious male for lusting after her (though I have seen other photos of Zadie, and have decided she is no Jackie). Regarding Everything is Illuminated, I have read A Memory of War by Busch and believe he knows more about the holocaust and being Jewish than I can even comprehend, and his arguement that a great Jewish writer friend of his (Epstein) wrote a book Foer must have studied, shaken up, and rewrote in a zany way and his dislike of that, well, it stands up with me. I was surpirsed Busch was unable to finish reading it, but I do not think Busch is a fan of young writers. I am sure when I am older, with twenty some books under my belt, I'll think young writers are punks, too.

On to other things. It was surreal but cool to meet nosmellgood and lucas, characters known only to me through blogging, in person. Maybe the whole world isn't filled with Internet scumbags, and maybe someday people will trust each other more and not have that trust shit on by idiots. Maybe.

It was also cool to drink whiskey with Busch at dinner last night. His best character, Jack, always drinks sour mash, and there we were, drinking it together. Awesome.

I enjoyed writing my own by-line for my introduction and I liked being introduced by Mary Rockcastle. She gives great introductions.

I thought the interview itself went well, though a few times I felt Busch wasn't totally listening to my questions. Everyone told me it was a great interview, and that I did a great job, and that felt very good. The most surprising thing during the evening was what it felt like to look out on a crowd mixed with friends and strangers, and to suddenly feel this boundless love towards the entire crowd, sort of welling up inside my chest, while I asked questions and Busch answered them. It was great. In fact the whole two day event made me inexplicably happy, as if I was less alone in the world, surrounded by an army of funny, intelligent people all marching towards the same goal as I was. Maybe that is why other people go to church and get all whacked-out about it.

After the master class, after the dinner with Busch, after the interview, after the bar after the interview, I returned to my apartment. Suddenly it was quiet, and I was by myself. I played a game of computer football, thoughts and snippets of conversation busting into my thoughts, and then I took a bath. My bathtub, so very small, did not bother me. I soaked in hot water, stupid with warmth, and when I got out of the tub I felt pleasently empty. I got into bed, and turned out the lights.