In Defense of Readings

I went to my first reading in college. My school, UC Riverside, has a long-standing “Writers Week,” where writers come to the college and do public events. My professor offered extra credit for attendance, and so I saw Daniel Alarcón read in a nondescript classroom in the middle of the day. I grew up in a beach town where “culture” was skateboarding and burritos. I’d loved books since I was a kid, but my tastes were unsophisticated, honed solely by the selection at my local Barnes & Noble. Before I transferred to UCR, the only person I’d been able to talk to about books was a boyfriend who introduced me to Anaïs Nin and Oxycontin. My lowbrow education had made me aware of open mics and slam poetry but I wasn’t yet aware of this thing called “a reading.” You could just go to an event... for free... and see the authors read their work? Right in front of you? And sometimes you could ask them questions? I’d never heard of Daniel Alarcón, but in that nondescript classroom, alive right in front of me, he was so charming and brilliant and handsome that I left in a giddy daze. (Afterward, I read his book. I thought it was OK.)