While ye may

The first morning at Big Creative Writing Conference a young man came up to me and said, “I remember you!” I tried to look humble as I waited for him to comment on the brilliance of the talk I gave last year, although to be honest, I was feeling puzzled. That presentation was so unremarkable than I myself don’t remember what my point was. I searched my brain, trying to remember at least the title so that I could respond to him intelligently, but I needn’t have bothered.

“You’re the naked photo lady!” he said.

Yep. It seems I’ve gained a reputation.

I guess it could be worse. The woman with the purple scarf the last night of the conference who will forever be known as “the woman who vomited in the corner of the bar.” An editor told me that the only thing people remember about him is the fact that he mentioned fellatio in both his talks. In the conference swirl of books, words, and ideas, it seems that it’s the bodily experiences that we cling to.

A woman who posed naked for me a few years ago chimed into the conversation to say that it was a positive experience. “I loved all the comments your readers put on my photo,” she said. “They were so lovely and affirming. All these women writing and telling me that I’m beautiful.” My readers have become an important part of this project: thankfully, I have sensitive readers who chime in with appropriate comments and stories about their own bodies. I rarely have to delete a comment, even when I use a title like “Them Naked Women.”

I did wonder, as I was checking into my hotel room, if my roommate would be willing to strip off her clothes for the camera. She knew the tradition, but not everyone respects tradition the way I do. Creative writing folks tend to be all about breaking with tradition and doing crazy new stuff. And I hadn’t had time yet to catch up on what was going on in her life. Maybe she wasn’t in the mood to pose naked. There really is such a thing as the right time and place.

Then I stepped into the hotel room. The first thing I noticed was a dozen red roses, gathered in a vase by her bed.

“She’s in,” I thought.

(Readers who want to know the history of the naked photo tradition can check it out here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. )