Dear______,

It has been two days since I was at the Muse, trying to suck up all the air and warmth and good juju as possible.  It has only been today, however, that I could put my fingers to the keyboard and write you this letter.  I spent three days at the conference this year in one of those unmistakable bright baby blue “Ask me I’m a Grubbie” t-shirts.  You might have seen me.  Maybe you remember me?  Either way, it makes no difference, because I remember you.

Maybe I remember you because you were one of the literati superstars so many were enchanted by.  The day after the Muse ended, not quite ready to wrest the writing needle from my vein, I went to hear Elinor Lipman read in Brookline.  And sitting there, I jotted down this list of authors and agents and editors I had been lucky enough to rub elbows with over the course of the conference – a list that spanned the gamut – but included Amanda Fucking Palmer.  A list that would make any wannabe writer swoon.  Those interactions happened because of the Muse.  But the Muse is not about that.  Not for me.  For me, it’s about you.

Maybe I remember you because – as a recovering academic – the conferences I spent a decade attending were stuffy uninspiring pissing contests during the day and self-flagellating drinking ones at night.  And you were nothing like those people.

Maybe I remember you because I offered you water and time checks as you prepared to present, having no idea this session I was about to sit through would open up long cobwebbed windows in my head, visions bursting through painted seals, remembering.  And to think I almost didn’t hear your words.

Maybe I remember you because when you wandered up to me, lost, and I told you where your next session was you were so grateful and kind, and your kindness felt real – and honest.  And you moved me.

Maybe I remember you because when I walked you to get your coat during that time when coat check was closed and I asked you how your weekend was and we connected over how our heads felt both drained and electric – and you told me that you had just had your first meeting with an agent ever.  And that you got a request for a full manuscript.  And I wanted to hug you.  I wanted to jump up and down.  I told you to go outside and scream it from a building top.

I remember you because it was you who made that aura of good feeling that I couldn’t escape at the Muse. You – anxiously popping Altoids in the Manuscript Mart waiting room – or smiling to yourself as you texted furiously in the Manuscript Mart decompression room.  You – trying to keep your head above water while also wanting to let go completely, to be pulled under, to submit yourself into this tide of writers and writing and words.  You were seasoned and published.  You were green and self-effacing.  You had just been accepted into the fiction incubator and when you told me that I wanted to throw you a party – right there by the merchandise table.  In that moment I was so happy for you – a stranger.  Congratulations, it was the best news I had heard in so long.  You – making me believe that it could all happen.

On Friday you were bright eyes and where is the Charles River room and I don’t know what session I’m signed up for, and by Sunday you owned that hotel – taking the labyrinthine stairs instead of the elevator up to the forth floor where human sign posts in blue could have told you where to go, but you already knew.  You old seasoned pro, you.

And you didn’t want to leave.  You were strung out but buzzing, what with the all the new people and pretty words.  You were hashtagging and hilarious.  You wanted to sleep for days.  You wanted to hurryup.gohome.write. Because you were inspired.

And you were inspiring.

So thank you,

A Girl In Blue

Kaila Kuban, Ph.D. is an anthropologist interested in youth, class, politics and the use of art in social justice movements.  As a new Boston transplant, Kaila spends her days writing at Grub Street, volunteering at 826 Boston, and trying to figure out why people in this city honk so often.  You can read her musings on creativity, media, culture and life at www.kailakuban.com.  Follow her on twitter @doctak.

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