poets

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Making “the Small Time”

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Last night, I was privileged to attend Writer’s Harvest 2012, an event at University of South Florida. People paid $5 at the door, or brought three canned goods to help feed the hungry. In exchange, listeners and participants got to hear readings from the likes of Jeff Parker and poet Traci Brimhall. The hall where the event was being held was standing-room only. Of course, this was in Tampa, where the literary arts have a pretty loyal following.

In smaller towns like mine, poetry readings are generally greeted by a handful of patrons who feel an “obligation” to support writing and culture in general. That being said, these “few but proud” gatherings have their own unique benefits. For one, small gatherings allow greater intimacy with the work presented. The poet can speak about the writing and be understood well, and usually, the readings are far more personal. Addressing a hall full of 500 people might be a rush, but it loses some of its closeness. Both the work and the artist are “drowned out” somewhat by the environment.

Comparing venues and styles of presentation caused me to think a little about the up-and-comers (like yours truly) who have to fight for their space in the limelight. Library and coffeehouse readings are great, and having a loyal little flock appreciate your work is nice. But at the end of the day, making the small time is exactly that — small. We poets are not unlike aspiring country crooners: Like them, we have to “pay our dues” in the dives and the honky-tonks of literature — the shabby cafes and tiny conference rooms where a handfull of people can begin to spread the word.

There are no backlit marquees or laser-printed fliers proclaiming the greatness of the small-town writer. This is why so many scribblers migrate to locales like New York City, where, with any luck, one’s work can be heard and experienced by larger crowds and potential game-changers for one’s writing career. However, throwing fate to a place populated by similar dreamers and doers has its own hazards. All of the old “fish bowl” cliches have some element of truth; one can be a big fish in a small pond or a smaller fish in a larger pond. It depends on your desires.

Personally, I would prefer not to be a fish at all. I write because I like to, I read because I love the music of language, and I appreciate people who appreciate my work. Whether that’s a crowd of 5 or 5,000, I’m simply happy to be the attended voice. Yes, I’d like one day to move beyond “the small time,” but for now, with my situation in life, I’ll take the sporadic applause of a few over the ovations of masses. There’s time for both yet.

poetry, Uncategorized

Faith, Cognition, and Creativity

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It’s always dangerous to start blogging about potentially divisive issues like religion, especially on Sunday. But this post really isn’t about religion; it’s about faith and its role in the creative process. It’s also about how others within the creative and academic community perceive writers of faith. This post will probably cost me some readers, and I’m okay with that. I respect your views, and I’d like for you to respect mine as well. If you don’t, so be it. This is America, after all.

I have a lot of friends within the writing and arts realm who generally frown upon Christianity. They’ve had bad experiences with churches, pastors, congregation members, or other entities (choir directors, for instance). They’ve been fatigued by petty squabbles over methodology or order of worship. Their doors have been knocked on by cult members who say the path to prosperity and eternity is “my way or the hell-way.” It’s too bad, really.

In workshops and in seminars, there always seems to be a faction of holy-haters, and inevitably, they flock together to build the fire of their ire with the fuel of others’ guile. I happen to be a Christian, and I’m saddened by their disdain. Now before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me clarify: I am not what certain popular media portray as “Christian:” Quran-burning, hate-filled, condemnation spewers who bomb abortion clinics and wave “God Hates F*gs” posters. My Jesus wouldn’t do that.

My position is just this: In order to be “whole” people, individuals must engage not only their minds, but also the other aspects of their humanity– the physical, the emotional, and yes, the spiritual. My soul happened to be spoken to at an early age. I felt a sincere and innate desire to choose Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, and since that time, my Faith has given me “life more abundantly:” My highs have been the highest, my lows have been the lowest, but in every circumstance, my God has seen me through in a way that secular logic never could. Whether it’s been near-death experiences (I’ve been on life support twice), experimental brain surgery in my early thirties, or the thousands of smaller instances along the way, I feel certain that my life would have been much worse and less significant without Christ.

My personal faith isn’t the way some choose to engage their soul, and I get that. For some of my writer friends, Yoga is their spiritual exercise of choice. For others, they lean toward a different set of traditions. These same friends have sent me their “happy thoughts” or their “positive vibrations” when they’ve been doing their religious practices. I am not offended. We agree to disagree, and they acknowledge my prayers and practices just as I acknowledge theirs. Call it the spiritual equivalent of the “two-finger wave” off the steering wheels of our separate supernatural vehicles.

But herein lies the key to this matter: Faith, you see, is exactly that — metaphysical belief. It’s not a scientific theory to be diagnosed and dissected by the mind, and that element of mystery disturbs some of my colleagues. You cannot solve a spiritual question with a cognitive answer any more than you can use your heart as your brain. The two (in both cases) carry specific demands and capabilities that cannot be met or found in other ways.

Likewise, having a science-based argument about religion is like trying to apply duct tape to a rainbow. It ain’t-a gonna happen, friend. I know that my writing is stronger and my life is better when both most closely reflect and exhibit the tenets of my beliefs. When I’ve tried to “be someone else”  or write like someone I’m not, the product was passionless, synthetic, and ugly. I cannot “write like a Buddhist” any more than Richard Gere can act like he’s me (trust me, he can’t).

My faith has given me inspiration many times over the years. Granted, my poems have not become evangelical daggers that stab scripture into people; that wouldn’t help anyone, and it’s not my style. However, chances are good that if you’ve had a strong emotional (even spiritual) response or connection while reading my work, that’s probably not accidental, either. I’ll let the reader decide that little detail.

The purpose of this post, I hope, has been clearly conveyed. My intent here is not alienation or division, but explication and perhaps some provision of understanding. The closer we can come to being real with each other about all the diverse facets of our lives as writers, artists, and whole human beings, the better our world will be. If this transparency offends you, reader, I apologize. I would offer my warmest regards and highest hopes for all of us in the week ahead. And if you’d like, I’ll say a little prayer for you, too.

poetry, Uncategorized

The Poet as Peddler

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I’ve never considered myself much of a salesman. As a kid, I sold a few candy bars and other fundraisers for school, but other than that, I’ve never had much of a knack for getting people to part with their money. Truthfully, it feels kind of dirty. Even when I’m selling a product that I firmly believe in (like my own writing), I find it difficult to persuade others to buy.

This past weekend, I had the benefit of participating in the Polk Authors and Illustrators Festival, a downtown marketplace-style gathering of writers and artists in Lakeland. There I was, hawking my wares to Joe Public, having the grandest of conversations about poetry, Florida, and a thousand other topics. I fell into sort of a groove at one point where people were buying books left and right, not because I was pushing my product on them, but because I engaged their natural desire to talk about themselves.

As they spilled their guts about their childhood or their daughter-in-law, I found some kind of remotely related tie-in to my work. I opened the book up, showed them a verse or two that had to do with our conversation, and by George, they bought the book. I’m sure that those of you in sales have a name for this kind of approach, but far be it from me to know such things — I remain a poet and schoolteacher at heart.

The lesson, I guess, was just this: If you show up to a place all worried about how many books you’re going to sell (or not), then you reap the results of your anxiety. If you just take it easy, talk to the people like a normal human being, and do your best to be a good listener, the sales take care of themselves. Events like the Authors and Illustrators Festival help me to remember my place in this world; I’m not a pitch-man or a carpetbagger, thank goodness. I do, however, know good-sounding words when I come across them, and I’m a pretty fair peddler of free knowledge. I might do the festival again next year, but for tonight, there’s writing to be done. Time to close up shop.

poetry, Uncategorized

Writing in “Real Life”

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Before my cohort and my other fellow MFA candidates left from our last residency in June, we were given a final warning by the inimitable Arthur Flowers (see photo, left): “So, what are you going to do? You’re about to go back out into real life, where there’s bills to pay and mouths to feed. … People are going to tell you that you’re chasing a fantasy. People are going to say to you, ‘Just do like the rest of us.’ Don’t you do it. Follow that dream you’ve begun here. Never let anybody tell you that you’re not a writer.”

The truth is, I’ve had to replay this little lecture to myself on more than one occasion. As my teaching gigs and the mundane suburban duties of yardwork and such pile up, I sometimes tend to forget that I am also a poet. After all, the labels of father, husband, and professor seem to hold so many more responsibilities. What’s more, the immediacy of providing for my family tends to obscure the more long-term goal of poetic success.

It is indeed a dog-eat-dog world out there, and poets, like everyone else, are scrambling in a fight to the top: networking, assuming new titles, taking on the challenges of work-home balance, and ensuring that all the parts of life are functioning smoothly. In the midst of all this, it becomes pretty easy to allow writing and those related goals to take a back seat. I even found myself telling my wife recently, “Writing’s not as important as (insert bigger priority here).” And while that may be true, I must remind myself not to throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater. Just because life demands greater attention to things of necessity doesn’t mean that I should completely cast aside any and all writing endeavors. And neither should you, reader.

“We do what we have to do so we can do what we want to do,” the old saying goes. But occasionally there’s a blurry line between those two ideas. Where the needs meet the wants, in that blurry gray space, is poetry. Yes, I could live without writing. But it would definitely be a sad and colorless existence, devoid of any creative sparks or intrinsic cognitive satisfaction. It is unimaginable and unimaginative. I have no plans to cut out my essence, just as I have no plans to desert my family or my career. Join me, readers, in this persistent striving toward the bigger, toward the better, toward tomorrow. Let us be pilgrims on this journey together. May our walk be filled with abundance, and may our pens never run dry.

poetry, Uncategorized

Old-style submissions: A lost art

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Not so terribly many years ago, magazines received writer’s work using that method that we today refer to as “snail mail.”

In the first writer’s guide I ever bought (I think I might have been 17 at the time), every market entry included the following instructions: “Please include a SASE with adequate postage for reply, and a cover letter that includes a brief writer’s bio.” The words sometimes included other instructions for submitting by mail, some including “reading fees” and the like, but for the most part, the standard editor expected you to include A.) a well-written and properly formatted cover letter, B.) your submission of 3-5 poems (some more, some less), and C.) the all-important self-addressed stamped envelope.

Today, the process has become much more mainstreamed and fast-tracked, with online submission sites like Submittable making life easier on the industrious writer. There is a space for a cover letter through such services, though editors today seldom expect it to be the eloquent and elegant communication that it was once supposed to be. Moreover, the modern submissions process takes perhaps a few seconds as opposed to the elaborate endeavor that it once was. Some would call this progress, including me. By the same token, however, there are some points about this slicker model that make me somewhat nostalgic for the “good old days.”

First, the tree-free model lacks the air of refinement that stationery and bone-colored, fibrous papers promised. Yes, I am aware that all this shipping and mailing taxed our environment to a degree, but by that same token, it carried with it a certain degree of class and culture that we have lost today in the effluence of digital missives. No more can people be identified by their cursive, and no more do wax seals bear the impressive monogram of a sender. Instead, we have yet another heading in yet another database.

When historians want to trace the personal writings of famous authors of our era, will they be limited to the “comments” section of some submission site? Where will the personality of the writers shine through, other than their “professional” writings? No more will there be pointed handwritten notes to indicate the passion or the passivity of the correspondent. No more envelopes sealed by a variety of methods. No more yellowed, saved and folded notes. We are slowly but surely losing a vital piece of our humanity to the name of efficiency.

It was my pleasure recently to send off an old-school submission to a chapbook contest. Yes, I had to use my own printer ink. Yes, I had to include that SASE. And yes, I even had to write a check and a writer’s bio. Plus, I had to buy postage. But all that, I felt, was worth it. At least when that editor receives my submission, he or she will be grasping some small piece of my personality beyond my poetry. Win or lose, a piece of myself has reached another fellow human being, and the intrinsic value to that small act is beyond the price of any printer cartridge.

poetry, Uncategorized

Literary Wingmen

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ImageT.E. Hulme wrote six poems in his life, with the best known piece being a short little near-pastoral titled “Autumn.” But this Englishman, who fought in World War I, is known better for his attachment to other greats. The company he kept included big names in the world of poetry, including Eliot, H.D., and a number of well-known imagists. He joined poetry clubs and took part in literary events where better-known authors read and were celebrated, and in 1917, he was shot and killed in wartime. He was only 34. His legacy today is largely attached to the reputation of better-known names from literature like those mentioned above. Scholars today refer to him more as a “critic” than a poet.

The lesson of Hulme’s life is one all writers, and especially poets, should take to heart: While being around “names” might be exhilirating, and doing so may have its own benefits, it is imperative that we not forget who we’re really in this business for — ourselves. Oh sure, I could go on some great philanthropic rant about how writing is “all for the readers,” or “to make society and culture better,” but at the end of the day, let’s get real: The reason writers write is to be read and recognized by others. No matter how charitable or noble our other motives may be, the one driving force behind writing is the thought that someone else will take in and appreciate our words.

So, if one is constantly “hanging around” others who are already established, that might be fun and even rewarding, but honestly, when the fat lady sings, who wants to be remembered as “that guy who hung around (famous name here)?” Making a literary contribution demands more than being the bookish equivalent of a Kardashian. Staking out one’s own path and territory is as necessary in the writing world as it is in business. Warren Buffett didn’t get where he is by riding the coattails of Rockefellers, and today’s writer can’t expect to be remembered by sitting on Grisham’s front porch, either.

Certainly this isn’t to say that receiving mentorship from “names” isn’t helpful; it definitely is. But at some point, it’s time to leave the nest and spread one’s own wings. My aspiration is that, when my time comes, I’m not put into the history books like Hulme; by then, I will hopefully have made a significant impact that is beyond “knowing and imitating good poets.” No doubt my writer friends desire something similar. Let’s begin forging that path today. Our literary legacies depend upon it.

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Treading the Mason-Dixon Line softly

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Here’s the thing about writing regional poems: you have to be careful.

As a native of Florida (and of the South, no matter what some folks may say), I find that an awful lot of my work takes on the dialect, the idioms, and the culture of our southeastern United States. However, that gift of geographic identity is a double-edged sword.

It becomes very easy to cross over from the easy grace and subtle lilt of Southern verse to something that is pure cornpone. When I find my work sounding like bad country music, I know it’s time to drop back and rethink. I’ve always been a firm believer in central metaphors — those comparisons that build poems from the outset. However, when those metaphors are already overdone (sunsets=symphonies, etc.), then it’s time to step away from the work for a while and allow the creative juices to do their job.

The South has a far too dynamic history to be denegrated by bad poetry. There are already enough cheesy lines about Mama’s Cookin’ and Daddy’s Workin’ without more people contributing to the drivel. Certainly, food and labor are staples of life here in the American South, but expressing those same sad sentiments in echoed cliches does nothing for literature or culture.

To my fellow Southern Writers, I urge you (as I urge myself) to examine and edit closely. Much like hard-core evangelicals’ “WWJD” bracelets, I would ask a similar and perhaps slightly blasphemous question of our work: What would Robert Penn Warren think? You could replace the name here with the exemplary Southern poet of your choice: Natasha Trethewey, Kevin Young, Rodney Jones, whomever. But in the end, if our work doesn’t measure up to the high standard set before us, we’re just wasting our ink.

poetry, Uncategorized

You win some, you lose some…

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Some days you have to ask yourself, “Is it really worth it?”

 

 

Recently I received a letter in the mail informing me that I had (yet again) not been selected as the winner of a recent writing contest. Not a great surprise; I’m pretty used to getting bad news from publishers. This particular one, though, had my hopes really high — the contest judges were known for favoring my type of poetry, I had closely studied past winners and their work, and in general, I had prepared myself to take on this contest with the dead-level best of my abilities.

So much for that. In response to this letter, I took some of my own advice and revamped the manuscript, added in newer, even more high-quality works where they best fit, and spruced up the formatting a wee bit. I don’t anticipate that these changes will ensure my victory over 500 or 1,000 other entries, but at least I feel better about the whole situation. I am, by the way, submitting the manuscript to two other contests in response to this news also. Down, but assuredly not out.

I suppose the point of this post is, if you’re going to be a poet, you have to take the bad with the good. As my mentors would say, be persistent and don’t get discouraged. When you know your work is good, it’s bound to find a home somewhere. Pardon me while I go get this beautiful collection ready for its next journey. I’ve got work to do.

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The joy of publication

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As a young journalist, one of the perks of my job I truly enjoyed was seeing my byline above the stories I had written, and my name beneath the photos I shot of everything from car wrecks to disgraced public officials. That joy lingers today, but in a slightly different form: When I see my poetry appear in literary journals and other venues, there remains that sort of pride that goes with seeing one’s name in a place seen by many. I guess it continues to appeal to my ego, among other things, but no matter what the psychological explanation, seeing my name in print continues to be a thrill even after all these years.

Of course, publication credit has fallen from its former #1 spot on my list of writing needs over the years — as family and home have superseded the other areas of my life, seeing my byline is less joyful than receiving a healthy check for my work, for instance. Likewise, I’d much rather have a dinner on the town or a free “date night” with my spouse than be able to boast my literary accomplishments to others who most likely don’t care in the first place. I suppose this is what adulthood does to us, in some respects: It steals away our adolescent and young-adult pleasures and replaces them with the docile and common expectations of a relatively humdrum society and culture.

Nonetheless, a certain part of us, a less mature part perhaps, knows that recognition is indeed still on our Maslow’s hierarchy, albeit in a somewhat different place. Indeed, the receipt of credit for something well-written continues to be a source of inspiration, motivation, and aspiration for every writer, no matter how young or how old.

poetry, Uncategorized

Simultaneous Submissions and Such

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Flooding the market has its ups and downs

As an active working writer, I confess: I simultaneously submit work all over the place. A lot of journals these days have woken up to the fact that authors are going to be sending their work to multiple places at various times, and therefore, editors have broadened their horizons about simultaneous submissions — manuscripts sent to more than one venue at a time.There are a few journals’ bosses that still frown on this practice however; they assume that you must value their opinion so much that you would NEVER send your work to someone else at the same time. This elitist and frankly inefficient mentality is a holdover from a more Guttenbergian time, when “gentlemen” were expected to give their exclusive attention to one press at a time. Rarely do things operate in such a way today, though. Journaleers who expect writers to give them some kind of preferential treatment are as obsolete as tophats and typewriters.Recently, I submitted some pieces to a publication that included among its guidelines the statement, “We prefer no simultaneous submissions.” In my cover letter, I told the editors forthrightly that the pieces were being “shopped around” to other publications — if they want my work, they’ll have to come to grips with the fact that I have bills to pay and I operate largely on a “first-acceptance, first-dibs” basis. This isn’t some kind of snobbishness on my part; it’s just sound business practice. I want my work out there efficiently and presented well. Whoever does that the fastest and the best is the proverbial “winner.” If writers have to grapple with competition from others, why shouldn’t editors and publishers as well?Granted, the aforementioned publication might frown upon someone so recklessly disregarding their preferences, but at the end of the day, I know I have to face myself as a professional poet, and sometimes that means going against the grain. Here’s hoping I haven’t burned a vital bridge in the process…