I have often found that literary events fall into several distinct categories: those that I look forward to attending, those in which I feel obligated to attend, those that offer an open bar, those that offer a cash bar, and those that I forego altogether in favor of my couch.
People have been telling me, for quite some time, that I “just have to go” or that “it would be in my best interests” to attend the Brooklyn Book Festival. Usually when confronted with a majority preference, to paraphrase Mark Twain, I take time to pause and reflect—but there really wasn’t much reason for me not to go. It did find appeal in browsing anticipated releases, and grabbing some spoils. And as staff on 12th Street, I felt a responsibility to make sure that our print object was being dutifully heralded at the university’s booth, right? That was my story. I was sticking to it.
I arrived at the festival site early in the hopes that I could avoid the crowds, something that is paramount when attending any event but also hopelessly futile when the event is anywhere within the five boroughs of New York City. The festival is yearly confined to the boundaries of the ill-titled Columbus Park, a small stretch of green space sandwiched between Brooklyn Borough Hall, the Kings County Supreme Court Building, and a Shake Shack—a literal conflation of bureaucracy, administration, and gluttony. White tents organized in long, unending rows under which every local school, press, and literary publication had a promotional booth in place.
Not bothering to consult the printed guide placed in my hands, I dived in headfirst, quite positive that I would be able to navigate without much trouble. This was a mistake: I was in the vortex now, there was no escaping it—people, strolling leisurely, from booth to booth, picking up and leafing through pamphlets and books before setting them back on the table and engaging in uninspired small-talk. I’d been swallowed by the feckless mass of aimlessness. In retrospect, a more prudent plan of action would have been to consult the free guide, develop a strategic route to hit the booths or panels that interested me the most and then execute with abandon—but a prudent person I am not.
As I wandered about, dodging stalled pedestrians and muttering to myself about how I had unwittingly just transformed into the person of my own disdain, I came upon the realization that the various presses already had a stranglehold on my inbox—and, that, if I couldn’t charm my way into getting a book for free, or at the very least a heavy discount, I probably was not going to pay full retail. I passed by the New School and briefly watched a common instance of “which new school?”
In an attempt to salvage the day, I decided to sit in on a few readings and panels, but this too became an unenjoyable affair. Panelists and authors, barely audible, waged a pitched battle against the cacophony of sirens, car horns, and diesel engines. It was then that I did what any self-respecting cynic would do: I threw my arms up in surrender and beat a hasty retreat—politely and quietly. It wasn’t their fault.
Across the street from the muddled tumult of the festival, ahoy! a brewery taproom! Brooklyn needs another brewery like I need water in my lungs, but it appeared the most rational pace to seek refuge from an otherwise wretched day. As I settled into the plush bar seat, I took a moment to appreciate the air-conditioning, football game on the television, and cold beer that sweated into small, smooth rings on my coaster. I thought about how often these events predictably go awry and took a bit of solace in the idea that, when I attend the Association of Writers & Writing Programs Conference (AWP) in Tampa Bay and find myself flustered and embittered by the end of the first day, I can always sneak away and spend my afternoons at a dirty beach.
—Tucker Newsome, Editor-in-Chief