How NOT to make connections
Early in February, the literary journal I work at held a fundraiser at the apartment of a former *New Yorker* fiction editor. Editors, writers, fellow interns, and office workers were there to serve food and drinks while mingling. Since moving to New York, people are always telling me how great a place it is for “making connections”—a poisonous phrase if there ever was one. When I meet other writers, the last thing I am thinking about is what they might be able to do for me. Often I just want to find out if they are as interesting as their writing. And maybe I hope they find me interesting as well, that they might see some glimmer of potential in a well-read, nervous young man at a cocktail party. This desire often cripples me conversationally, my inner-voice blaring warnings: "Do not come off phony! Do not come off too eager! Do not let them know how familiar you are with their work!" The editors of the magazine and my friends and I arrived early, dressed in tweed or gray suits for the men, elegant dresses for the women. I dressed consciously to appear more than an intern. The apartment was quite small for the hundred or so guests, making our duties as faux-caterers rather tricky—particularly for myself, a big guy at 6-feet-1-inch and 200 pounds. It wasn’t pretty. I broke a few glasses, spilled quite a bit of wine, shoulder-checked one of the world’s foremost novelists so hard he almost choked, and stepped on several ladies' delicate toes. I felt barbaric, brutish, a lurching beast serving wine to guests which included National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize winners, poet laureates, esteemed editors from the very best magazines, and so on. The guests, though, seemed to have fun, and I believe the magazine made a little bit of money, which was the point of the evening. As for my connections, I shook some hands and made sure to introduce myself by my first and last name. I complimented people on recent work, compliments I really felt they deserved. Many of them were nice, some were not, though that may have been because they felt like a quarterback being blitzed every time I came through the room with hors d'ourves. I have several query letters drafted, ready to be slipped in manila envelopes and sent out. They read: Dear______, I met you at the ___ fundraiser. You were delighted by the turkey croissant I offered; I just know you'll love my short story enclosed (one of the characters, too, loves turkey croissants). Dear _____, I met you at the ___ fundraiser. I stepped on your toes at least five times and knocked the wind out of you twice. What a fun party, right? I’ve enclosed a short story, the prose of which I promise to be more coordinated than myself. Sincerely, Ashton Goggans
