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Friday, July 6, 2012

Why bother, you ask?

In response to a posting I made about the marginalization of poetry, and the compounded marginalization of “regional” poets, John Gagnon, an activist, agitator, and all-around instigator, asked:  “… one simple question? Why did you want to publish? Fame, fortune, riches, notoriety, to just tell a story in print and let time do its work by allowing the future to recognize your genius?” Ignoring the low-hanging fruit of notions of “genius” – as I say, John is a trickster – it got me to thinking about my motivations. Why bother publishing? The writing is the important part.

Putting aside the larger questions of publication (that is, “to make public”) for now, I’ll say that for me it began as a desire to connect with a larger community. Long before the internet brought everyone’s living room to the public forum, we had newspapers, magazines, and books as the major conduits for thought. There were not many books in my childhood home. We had Dr Seuss and a few other titles, that was about it. I was a comic book kid, and read these voraciously. One day, my grandmother brought home a 1963 hard cover edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer / The Adventures of Huckleberry  Finn that she’d found at a yard sale. It was one of those flip books, with Sawyer on one side and Huck on the other. I still have it.

For whatever reason, I wrote stories and poems and songs. My first attempt at a novel was a space opera inspired by and loosely based on Star Wars. The notebook that held it is long gone but I remember the anguish I experienced over having to kill off one of the main characters. Even at nine years old, I knew that a person couldn’t get sat on by a dragon from Jupiter and survive. To make it more difficult, I’d modeled the character on my next door neighbour, my only friend at the time.

A few years later, I began to mail my stories into magazines. Again, I don’t know why. I wanted to see my stories in print, yes. I wanted to get paid, yes. Mostly, I was probably just a lonely kid looking for community. I sent stories to Asimov’s Science Fiction, Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine, Amazing Stories, even the Canadian literary journal Quarry. The editors must have known they had a child’s work in their hands. The rejections were courteous, kind, and helpful. An editor from Asimov’s told me to keep writing and send more stories. The editor from Amazing Stories advised me to not send in original copies. This was good advice, but it meant that I’d have to type out two good copies of each story on the little blue Brother. The editor at Quarry, a man named Bob Hilderley, quickly became my hero upon sending back a page of notes and suggestions for a terrible story about an abused horse. Mr Hilderley’s most memorable advice, “Try not to use too much description. Let your readers fill in the details.”

I kept sending away stories and poems for years, from the age of about 14 to 19. Then I took a ten-year break from the publishing racket. The only suggestion I make to people who want to send work to publishers is to be ready for rejection. Young people should feel absolutely ready, as early rejection could shut one down for good. Early rejection didn’t discourage me. It made me realize that I needed time to become a better writer.

Books were, and remain, the instigators. In tenth grade I found a copy of ­The Stone Bird by Al Purdy. This collection recounted some of Purdy’s adventures in the far north. Now, Purdy is often thought of as a brawler, a braggart, a drinker, an all-around difficult guy. But The Stone Bird opened the possibilities of poetry. I had no idea that poems could do what they did in that book: namely, tells stories through imagery and emotion.

So, Purdy and Poe, Dickinson and Twain, Vonnegut and Brautigan, Bradbury, Atwood, Bester, and a beautiful little anthology called The Voice That is Great Within Us, edited by Haydn Carruth, got me on the publishing kick. I wanted to contribute something to that magical pool where I’d found companionship. It’s never about fame. And, apart from the journalistic pieces I did over the years, it’s never been about money, either. Perhaps it was about recognition, acceptance. I’d have to spend some time on the couch to get too far into that vault.






Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Ramblings on Regionalism, Fringes, Cliques, and Outcasts

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?