An Introvert's Guide to The Sewanee Writer's Conference

Two days before I left for the conference, my phone served up this extra special treat: an article published in Lit Hub about the author’s nervous breakdown at an esteemed writing conference. I debated clicking the link, but was baited by pre-conference jitters. The author didn’t mention Sewanee by name, but because I knew the particulars of the conference and the length of the drive from the Nashville airport, it was clear. Already concerned about how I would manage my introversion around so many brilliant authors for twelve days, my anxiety ramped when I read she left after twenty-four hours because she felt so destabilised by the caliber of authors, and some underlying personal issues. I empathised with her, and worried my experience would be similar. I texted friends who reassured me I could make the accommodations I needed, while also getting all I wanted out of the conference. My goals were low: make it through workshop without an emotional meltdown, and absorb as much wisdom as possible from the lectures and readings.

After the hour and a half drive, I arrived at check in fifteen minutes early, characteristically eager and earnest. These traits of mine are annoying to some and endearing to others. The friendly staff gave me my name tag lanyard with a pocket for the keys to campus buildings, and the suite I would share with two other women in St. Luke’s dorm. Just as I was leaving with my new water bottle and keys, Claire Messed and Jill McCorkle walked past me. My blood spiked with excitement. How would I ever be chill around them? They are Micks and Keiths of the literary realm. Internally, I was screaming like the young girls in old footage of Beatles concerts.

After several trips from my car to the elevator, I dressed my twin bed with a mattress pad, weighted blanket, and reading lamp. If anything went awry, I had my safe nest prepared. I checked my scheduling app repetitively, picking out the lectures and readings I couldn’t miss, memorising my workshop rotation, and noting the mornings hikes were planned. I knew I wouldn’t make it to many late night events where karaoke, comedy, and music were planned alongside the bar. Not that it didn’t sound fun, but my social batteries are wee. Even sitting quietly in a room with over a hundred people drains them.

The first night, Maurice Carlos Ruffin read from his latest, The American Daughters. I was excited because I was already halfway through his gorgeous novel, and he was one of my faculty members for workshop (along with Jill McCorkle). Despite the challenges of navigating the stage in a leg cast, Maurice’s reading was dynamic and engrossing. It was the first time I’ve seen an author add a soundtrack for cinematic effect, and it worked brilliantly. On the second afternoon, Claire Messed lectured about the external and internal use of time in fiction, and how we experience time today, in our age of urgency. She used this poignant quote from the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze (1925-1975): “Power demands sad bodies. Power needs sadness because it can dominate it. Joy, in consequence, is resistance because it doesn't give up. Joy as a life force leads us in places sadness can never go.” I was bowled over. An hour later, I stumbled into a conversation with Claire (I still feel like I should call her Madame Messed), about myth and identity. I felt like I was in a non-misogynistic Woody Allen movie scene. Take him out of it, and leave the conversations about culture, art, and philosophy.

When workshop began, my insecurities emerged when I realised a lot of writers in the group had their MFAs, while I do not. I was pretty quiet that first day, but became more comfortable as the week progressed. By the end, I was shocked to find that not only did I survive the process, but I enjoyed it, and left with actual friends. We will continue to support each other’s work and lives. It was close to the end of the conference when I had my meeting with Jill McCorkle. After seeing her in action, I knew she was a warm, personable, and generous, so I was less nervous. The insight and encouragement she gave me during our meeting will carry me for a long time, as will the conversations I had with Maurice.

Throughout the weeks, people would ask why they didn’t see me much at night. I told them the truth: no matter what time I go to bed, my brain wakes up between 4-5:00 a.m. Like the color of my eyes, there’s not much I can do about it, it’s just how I’m wired. People were kind and accepting about it. In fact, it was almost overwhelming how friendly everyone was. Anyone with a conference lanyard around their neck smiled and waved, even in the torrents of rain we had during our stay. We masked indoor because of Covid spikes. I’m so glad this was in place because despite all precautions eight people got the virus. They were well taken care of in quarantine, with zoom provided for workshops and lectures, and food and liquids delivered to their rooms. Almost everyone was well again by the time the conference was over.

For my writer friends who are wondering about the application process, it is true that the acceptance rate is low. This year it was around twelve percent. I had applied once before but didn’t get it until this year. I heard the same from several other writers. So, apply, and apply again. The application process is free, and there is a different set of readers each year, outside of conference staff. It’s nice because everyone is greeting you with fresh eyes, unaware of who and how attendants were selected.

Here is a picture of my workshop group. We took a serious one too, but this one captures our essence much better. See? Not so scary after all.