Gaithersburg, Maryland puts on a dandy book fair, if you don’t know. The recent one marked my second time attending in support of Washington Writers’ Publishing House’s (WWPH) presence. Beyond catching up with my pressmates and admiring their exquisite pitches to table visitors, it’s just plain good to be among unpretentious readers, people who show up to enjoy Dave Barry, support a friend, or simply hunt for their next good read.
The standard question we posed to passersby was simple: Are you a reader or a writer? Most had no hesitation in answering, but I sympathized with the writers who looked sheepish saying it out loud. It’s a worthwhile exercise, learning to claim the identity of “writer” with a little more volume. Whether there’s a manuscript ready to pitch or just an incubating idea trying to break through, for everyone it all begins with putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). It’s really not more complicated than that.
As with many literary events, there was a mix of genre and literary writers, both earnestly seeking common ground. I find myself envying speculative fiction writers who embrace their inner weirdness without apology, but can find kinship with those us who stay in the realism lane. (Let’s call it that. I’m not sure I know what “literary fiction” really means anymore.)
Events like this are helpful entry points into understanding the publishing world in digestible, visible, and human-sized dosages. Readers and writers get to see what a small press book table actually looks like: the shape and feel of independently published titles, the aesthetics of print-on-demand production in contrast with glossy Big Five books, and the pride of presses that lead with purpose and minuscule marketing budgets.
WWPH had a strong sales day. Our diverse slate of recent titles looked great on the table, colorful and eye-catching. One visitor, not a writer, asked how to become a “member,” drawn simply by the idea of being in community with literary enthusiasts. Another asked thoughtful, pointed questions about our upcoming Pride-themed mini-book, wondering if the effort risked veering into corporate-style performative allyship. It doesn’t, I can attest—but the question was fair and deserving of dialogue.
In conversations about representation, I found myself noticing the lack of Black male writers present. I did catch David Aldridge giving a talk on his book The Basketball 100, which genuinely sounds interesting. (It’s also a really thick book, so I didn’t buy it and will wait for the inevitable streaming documentary that I am sure will be produced someday.) I couldn’t help but wonder: Did any organizer cringe a little at the fact that the most prominent Black male author on the program was there to talk basketball? Still, full credit to the city for putting on a lively well-run event.
One side note: The festival’s location is not the easiest venue to reach. While nestled in a nice green park next to the local high school, the onsite parking fills up fast, requiring visitors to catch shuttles from distant muddy lots. I ending up parking in a “downtown” Gaithersburg garage and walked down the unfriendly wide strode that is Maryland 355. Pleasant walks to and from such an event would have been apt bookends for the day. The crossing guards were kind and efficient, but wouldn’t it be nice not to need them at all or have a nearby coffee shop to read the opening chapter of a book you just bought? Sigh…America will get the suburbs right… someday.
