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.