Writer at Work: Dispatch from LitChella

Where my younger self bumped into my older self and said hello

This morning I got the last rejection from my most recent round of submissions. Since January, I've submitted one chapbook and five essays/excerpts from Clay Bodies. The chapbook I knew was a very long shot, because I threw it together hastily at the last minute, but the essays I felt really good about. It would be easy to let myself feel down about the rejections, and I’d be lying if I said they weren’t a disappointment, but I’ve been at this long enough to know how to play the game. I continue to feed the meter.

Today, I’m hanging out at LitChella—you know, like the music festival, except better—at RCC. I have a table for 909 Books and I’ve been thinking about what I hope to accomplish. In my Inlandia days, tabling was routine. With 909, because we’re a collective and a community of peers, my role is a bit different. I don’t feel the need to engage every person that walks by. In fact, people walking by notice the sign and look a little confused, like, should they try and talk to me? Or leave me alone? At which point, I close the laptop and engage. I’ve had some nice conversations. Do you like to read? Do you like to write? Most are hesitant to call themselves a writer, or even a reader. One young guy said he didn’t read, but when I dug a little further, he’s into comics. It’s totally okay to say you read comics! Comics are great!

Last week, I went to five of the author events at UCR for Writers Week. The first day, there for Prageeta Sharma, I was happy to see the familiar face of Siw Heede and then Thursday for Jonathan Lethem Janine Pourroy joined me, and then Ann Kanter spotted our Inlandia-adjacent grouping and came and sat with us. On Friday, we saw Ilya Kaminsky, D.A. Powell, and Viet Than Nguyen. I stayed the whole day and our party had grown to six: Siw, Ann, Janine, Alicia Homer, me, and Charlotte Davidson. [Read Siw’s write up about her Writers Week experience on her Substack here.]

As I sit here listening to the open mic for current contributors to RCC’s MUSE, I’m reminded of how I’ve come full circle. Once upon a time, a twenty-something RCC student named Cati Payne published in MUSE. Today, a fifty-something Cati Porter read a poem for their open mic.

I waved to that younger self, walking up to the mic, but I don’t think she recognized me.