Someone recently asked the innocent question, “How are book sales?” The answer, the real answer, is, “I don’t know.” My suspicion is that “not great” might be another accurate answer.
As I see it, a book of poetry has two things against it. First of all it’s poetry. Secondly, it’s a book. My city (population 75,000) boasts two Coles bookstores, each with almost identical stock, neither with a poetry section. Sure, there is the Music/Arts section where one might find plays by Shakespeare and maybe a book of poems by Don McKay or Billy Collins. Nothing against Don McKay or Billy Collins, mind you. I’m glad to see them “representing.” It would be grand to see at least the winners of the big poetry awards (Griffin, Trillium, GG etc) in stock. It would be even grander to see the finalists there with them.
Now, before someone accuses me of sour grapery -- as in, “Markie’s upset because his books are not in the local Coles store” – let me say that the absence of my books no longer upsets me. It used to. I was flummoxed why the one store that stocked my first book didn't restock after selling all copies within a couple of months; nor did they consider a signing/performance. With the second book, neither store has even bothered.
So, if the local bookstores don’t support regional poets, who will? Answer: The Art Gallery of Algoma sells my books and books by other local writers. Thank goodness for art galleries.
A few weeks back, I visited a popular craft store on Highway 17N. It’s the kind of place that sells novelty items like “authentically clothed Indian dolls” (Yikes), tomahawks, and little birch bark tipis all made in Taiwan. They also sell maple syrup, magic rocks, and an assortment of moccasins, headdresses, t-shirts, and hats. To their credit, they have a pretty neat book section. Sure, there are the usual “Haunted Ontario” titles (again, I’ve nothing against these titles) that populate tourist traps. But I’ve found some great historical and wildlife books there over the years, as well as poetry by Michael Robinson and Wayne Keon.
As a patron of the craft shop’s poetry offerings, I thought maybe they’d carry my books. Sent to the back room to speak with the owner, who spoke from behind a wall of computer monitors with only the top of her head visible, I was told: “We’re not a poetry-type place.”
I protested, meekly, that some of the material was regional, dealing directly with the area, the lake, its history. “No.”
On my way out the door, I checked the book section for evidence of poetry and found none. Again, it had sold and was not replenished.
Poetry is the fringe of literary culture, and regional poets (by which I mean anyone outside a major city, those published by small and micro presses, poets unaligned with writers groups or literary cliques) are the fringe of the fringe. There is a pecking order. There is a hierarchy and a union of peers that includes or excludes writers, based on region, perceived influence, and renown.
An easy exercise is to watch poetry reviews, if you can find them. Take note of the poets who get reviewed and the poets who review them. It’s interesting, the connections you can find.
Now, if all this sounds a little paranoid and a lot depressing, I apologize. Every field has its cliques, right? It’s only natural that people gravitate to the people they know. It happens in every facet of society. Poetry attracts a small group of people, many of whom are poets and producers of poetry books themselves. Most of these folks buy books only from friends and from the publishing houses and authors they are trying to impress. The trouble is that those on the fringe of that small fringe are left adrift. As one powerful player in Canadian literary circles told me when asked if he’d like a copy of my first book: “the north is a tinder box (in spite of the cold, hence the cold answers)."
The kicker, of course, is that where I live isn’t even “north.” It’s closer to Chicago than it is to James Bay, or Toronto for that matter. But it’s way outside.
What are your thoughts?
