The Struggle To Publish In Print

While some people in my life still revere the book and might tell me that my perspective on publishing is dour, I think the time is running short for an aspiring writer to see their words in print. In this month’s Atlantic there is an article which foretells a better time for content creators, writers, who are seeking to break in; that the very elements of our destruction may in fact spur a greater forum for success. I fall into the dubious column when looking at those forecasts: it’s that stalwart magazine’s necessary position to see greener pastures, to support the engines that are as ubiquitiously in power as the printing press 100 years ago.

I’m not equating my search with that greater, overarching state of the state of publishing. I am one of those aspiring though, no denying that fact. I was raised with books, a love of Powell’s on Burnside, the security of a shelf of paperbacks only half mastered. I accept that should my fate come to pass, and I become a writer, then a majority of my voice will be something other than print. I say something because, no one really knows what that thing might be. Crave that spine with my name, I still do though.

Even if it’s just once, just a single shot to start and everything else that follows is unfamiliar, it feels important.

This summer as I work through my poems as I do, I’m going to start piecing together that manuscript. There are a sufficient number of presses offering the opportunity, I’d be foolish not to. Right? I’m at least six months from starting a novel (and therefore so many more months from finishing it). I’m pushing that short story stone up the hill. Will it ever summit? The best laid plans right now feels like a slow return to the basics. I’m a poet. Although muddied in recent days with depression and self-doubt (talk about unoriginal) I feel when I reassemble myself on a bedrock of core values, I need to see this particular project through. It’s been too long.

Too long. Too long and the opportunity to make right, dwindling.

An Old House, An Old Destination, An Old Idea

On the phone yesterday. A lot, it turned out although the morning didn’t promise such a thing. With a sick dog in my life who eventually passed in the early evening, it felt like I was always talking to someone. Always relaying messages and information. The vet and her advice. My wife who was in between massages, making decisions. My mother who noticed a Facebook post about my hope for his eventual well-being who on the eve of her birthday, met us at the hospital and watched us go through the decision to put him to sleep.

All in all, the house is empty today. My eyes still hurt. My mind still races with the subject of those phone calls though.

One of the conversations I managed to have was with David Beispeil, a Portland area poet/writer/organizer whose credits are too many to mention. One prominent role that David occupies is as the Director of the Attic Writers, a writer’s resource center here in town. They offer classes and consultations. I came across my contact with him as I randomly explored their site. From the name of one of their consultation services, I thought they might be a place for me to connect to.

Those who know me, know my poems are getting “out there”. Where “there” is, I don’t quite know with any certainty anymore. While I am pleased with the infrequent recognitions I receive from the at large literary world, I’m not quite sure when I look back/forward that I see my verse fitting into anything concrete. No tradition. No stream of the literary moment. My work ends up “anywhere” and that’s what I end up celebrating. Every few weeks a poem is received. Every few weeks I get the good word.

Every few weeks I wonder what kind of writer am I. What kind of writer am I?

David Beispiel had some things to say about what kind of writer. Not knowing me, he couldn’t speak to my specific work but he spoke to becoming what kind of writer you are and making that a matter of choice. Our conversation was about a specific poetry consultation class that the Attic offers. You can bring them a 20-25 page poetry manuscript and one of their poets will consult with you: coming up with a submission strategy, having an idea of what your poetry is made up of, looking at chapbooks.

What is a chapbook, exactly?

I’ve always known that chapbooks are small press poetry books, something between self-published (read: photocopied) broadsides with crude design and those perfect bound University Presses. My sense of myself is that I’m beyond needing a Xerox card and some coins while not quite ready to approach the University of Pittsburgh to bring out my initial offering. Where does that place me? Beispiel was very clear that while a chapbook isn’t a place to make money for a poet, it does allow you to transcend the first of the literary world’s misgivings: vanity presses, while advancing, are still the realm of the impatient. The unedited. Amateur. He said that although you’ll be paid in copies, a number of notable poets have parlayed that chapbook press success and turned it to one of the larger poetry presses. All this said, even Black Sparrow Press doesn’t “make” a poet a rich man or open every door, but it conveys something.

In ten years, if my book is out on Copper Canyon will I be happy? Of course. And I’ll clearly see the place where my work fits.

Here are some steps I’m taking over the next few months in order to position myself to begin a chapbook publishing effort.

1.) Read a lot of publisher’s guidelines. I’ve located a few databases that collect chapbook publishers. If I read a hundred sets of writer’s guidelines, I should get a good idea of what people are looking for.

2.) Peel back the veil on my own work and look for cohesion. This seems pretty self-explanatory but it’s difficult to see “into” your own catalog of work. Am I filling a niche I don’t quite see yet?

3.) Look at geography in the publisher. If the house seeks to promote it’s writer, where do I want to potentially travel? If it’s regional (Oregon, Washington, Montana or BC) I could more easily get to events where I’m “featured” and can make a face for myself. Of course, I’d love to be notable in New York or Montreal, but that’s not going to get me face time.

4.) Will the publisher promote me with any sort of on-line presence? Is it feasible to work on a print/on-line system where I have not only paper but a URL to hand out? This is something I should demand — I think.

5.) I’ll need a special query letter. Is this where I need eventual consultation from the Attic Writers?

6.) The question that keeps coming to me as one that needs answering: Is there an advantage to now seeking out publication of individual poems in magazines that also have chapbook publishers? It feels to me like that follows the same logic as querying the producers who judged your award winning screenplay.

7.) The on-going piece that’s been missing: finding someone who can serve as a sort of advisor/ad hoc editor of my poems as they’re forming into a manuscript. I’d love to have a voice that is critical and loving.

These are my ideas. In death, a conversation that takes on new life.

Modern Magi

The search for meaning on the backdrop of this season seems apropos. I woke up this morning to the same alarm clock (albeit a little later than usual). When I turned on NPR the news discussed oil prices, instability in Afghanistan’s leadership, health care, the job market and a disappointing first year in the Obama administration for African Americans. The world keeps on turning although there is something inherently different about today. We’ve been told it’s there. Told to feel for it. See it in other people’s smiles. Time was we were even convinced that if we’re not aglow with it, we’re something else. We are humbug.

When I was very young, I looked onto the coming hours between nightfall on the 24th and dusk the following day as ethically, almost astrologically apart from the others — this feeling I held strong to and identified with until very recently. The magic feeling survived into my early 30′s, in the glimmer of meaning and deference. Twenty odd years we followed the same course. Nightfall meant Lorraine’s house. Christmas Eve felt like a day when nothing bad could happen. Nothing cynical. One day of the year to thrill in the absence of anguish. Prevailing social currents distract us from the need of winding into a meaningful place. Maybe it’s the steady diet of social work and that experience with the plight of people. Perhaps its knowing that where there is pain, it remains and there is no vacation.

I don’t think that’s entire it though.

Charlie Brown Anticipates Adulthood

I’m going snow shoeing today. In ninety minutes, we’ll depart for Mt. Hood and the clear, cold afternoon unfolding on Trillium Lake. We’ll walk and burn our calves. Perhaps I’ll dig in and find that Irving Berlin moment, those days merry and bright. Perhaps something in the light will hasten the return of that feeling that today has an inherent superiority above all others. I hope so. Lisa will walk astride me. Sometimes she’ll be further up along on her own or next to Carrie. I know she wants this day to mean something too, just like any other day we encounter. She’s not similarly afflicted though. For good or bad, I’ve become one of those people who discover the presence of something when it’s sheer absence makes itself clear. Meaning doesn’t just stand out on its own. It has to emerge.

When all those reasons to be cynical fall away, today’s true meaning may well find itself in some astral form in a snowy field. There has always been some break in the light. A bit of cheer. I don’t know though. I’m hoping for it — sincerely. I don’t go into things with expectations however. Hope is that I don’t dig further into nihilism if it doesn’t and we drive down in the dark as empty as we ascended.

Running, always running.

When I was in grade and middle school, the mile run test was abject torture. My feet are bad. I preferred the sit-up or stretch tests. There has never been much strength there in my ankles and flat bottomed feet, and at random times throughout my youth I could be described as quite out of shape. Mom’s cooking, you know. In those early years, I would finish the mile through a combination of walking and running, a fair amount of gasping short of breath too. In my worst years, I applied a theory of running the long ends of the gym and walking the short from the third or fourth lap. It was how I dealt with the indignity of being unable to finish the mile.

As a freshman though, I was in much better physical shape. My Nintendo phase was gone. I worked out that summer with my Dad. That year I finished the mile for the first time without walking. I remember it, 26 laps around the gym without stopping. We had to signal to a spotter in the bleachers. Coming around that last bend felt really great, even if the time of up near 8 and a half minutes was no great feat (beginning of the realization, I’ll never be “fast”).

There was a starkly different sensation in that instance of surmounting significant distance. Whereas before, I moved sluggishly toward the finish line, this time I actually finished the task as described: the “mile run”. The sense of completeness was incredible. It was only in this later scenario that I had a sense of accomplishment.

That distinction between two different mile runs came to me today as I wrote the last planned scene of “The Promise Before The Sword.” A bloated, meandering, 110 or so pages of screenplay. Sub plots scattering in all directions like a dropped handful of pencil sticks. Some never completing. Pieces of story picked up and dropped. Characters exiting stage right with no compelling reason. For the first time in my life, I could see a distinction between “Finishing” and “Writing To The End” of a work. Perhaps now is a good time to know that. It seems like a worthwhile lesson as a creative person to learn. When is this work done?

I believe in this screenplay, this story of tangled moralities and endangered innocence. There is some meat on its bones, but a skeleton is all there is right now since I’m being honest with myself. If I allow the optimism to creep in on the fringes, I can see this feature length as the “smartest” most “compelling” work I’ve ever written, still it’s not all there in its proper sequence. When I was younger, getting to the end brought with it a sense of satisfaction. No more. I’m a better, more complete writer now and I understand that writing is rewriting and that when I sit down in the right amount of time with this screenplay again, the process will allow it to continue to take form.

The end isn’t where I need to be. Rather the right, appropriate end is.

I still can’t run a mile. That freshman year’s 26 laps around the Oregon City gymnasium was a halcyon day of physicality. Wandering into the self-help or exercise psychology section of Border’s Books isn’t my idea of compelling literature, still, I can glean some wisdom from my long ago experience in tennis shoes. What stage I completed today is distinct from the stage of finishing a screenplay. I wrote my story to the end. When I sit down to it again, that will be a matter of getting it into shape.

By Tuesday, some have forecast the summit at 103 degrees.

I remember the last 103 plus temperature. Lisa and I were on all fours in the living room of my Clinton Street apartment doing tedious art department work for my first short film, “Too Many I’s”. We were set to shoot the next day. We had three consecutive days like this. Our poor actor, Gaelen Poage had to do numerous takes wearing a dark blue shirt and tie, tucked into tan pants.

From The Working Set of "Too Many I's"

I have strangely fond memories of taking his shirt (actually my shirt which he borrowed) and drying it off with a hair dryer between takes. Among the most striking memories, and something that won’t leave me as long as there are scorchers is the sheen of sweat on his back as he stands from the table.

That film is long gone though. And I wouldn’t post on the weather.

A piercing sun is a harbinger for the coming Willamette Writer’s Conference in Portland, Oregon. It’s the third year I’ve attended the four day event. The third August weekend I’ve allowed my hopes to climb as high as the anticipated temperature. In 2007, I was followed around by a documentary film crew as I pitched “The Wager” to some hope but ultimately no avail. Last year I pursued agent Ken Sherman to uncomfortable ends throughout the Airport Hillton hoping to get his attention for a family based feature “At Cross Purposes”. In the end, I think he was more interested in getting fed, seeing the town, carousing with other agents who too were seeking work by day and play by night. We stood at the crossroads between lobby and guest rooms, staggering drunk and all I could muster was a slurred, “have a nice night.”

Like the weather, I’m not posting to detail where my two forays into the writing world have gone nowhere. My missteps are not entertaining. I’ve been stood up for pitch meetings only to steal a hurried word. On Sunday mornings, I’ve spent whole meetings with hungover talent managers talking about the Cleveland Indians pitching staff and wondered who should be paying for the favor. In late July, my concerns become this: that all hopes will inevitably rise and they will run unchecked for as long as I allow.

That my hopes will rise and I won’t quite know their most advantageous seizure.

There are reasons to think this conference will be something different. I’m wiser, I believe. By one year, I’m a better writer. I have a good, solid dramatic screenplay with a female protagonist that I’m pitching (some manager bios are asking for just that). I’ve even got a web series that’s high concept. For the first time in three years the new media idea is being brought to the forefront and it might be time to move on something of the sort. My two closest writing friends won’t be there, and although that makes me sad, it changes my approach to Saturday night at the Columbia grill so that I might be able to schmooze a little more.

All signs point to this being a different time for me to pursue the old hopes.

I’m writing this as a criminally shy person when it comes to what’s most important to me. I’ll walk in there in my new Pierre Cardin white cotton shirt and slender Ben Sherman tie and feel very good about myself. I’ll drink a cocktail — something I rarely do, cupping something other than beer in my palm — while sitting on the corner of the bar (where they say to sit, sure to get a good view on the room). I might even tout my work, speaking in a loud and steady voice about what I’ve spent the year working on. I’ll bend someone’s ear about the latest, high concept, dark comedy that I’ve been writing the last few weeks, “Patrick, Killpatrick”. I’ll bend their ear until they laugh hysterically because I know that piece is very funny.

Who I’ll do these things with and who I’ll subject them too is the essence of why I’m at the conference as a paying guest, instead of having walked out as a success story. No one has asked me to speak because I’m thirty-three years old and tremblingly shy to the deal makers. I joke well. I talk good on baseball. I sell badly. Perfectly comfortable amongst my peers, I’ll talk to writers similar in their career arc and achievement, certain that they can do very little to expose me. Get me in front of Ken Sherman and I’ll tell him about the best burger in the mid-valley with authority.

I’m thirty-three and I’ve got something completely backwards. I’ve never compelled the likes of him to take me out for one.

I’ve been driving around thinking about this since I registered for the conference a month ago. Like in most scenarios, I approach the people I like to write about most easily. I can go into any room filled with subjects and hold court. Not with the people who can help me get paid to write. If it’s a problem then it’s one I’ve had for most of my life. There is a certain monotony in knowing what turns you on too well. I’m living it. My working class people — my vulnerable, hopefuls — all of these story subjects are far more interesting. How can I turn this valve off? If not completely dry, then how can I part the spigot so that it flows equally well from each one?

It’s a skill I’ve yet to master.

Today, a paltry 93 degrees. Stifling without the intermittent breeze. I ran the bike from Salmon Street and Water Avenue up to foot of the Sellwood Bridge wondering what would the remedy be. How can I make 2009′s Willamette Writer’s Conference the one, true breakthrough? I burned hard, exhausted my legs. I turned up the iPod to frenetic punk rock just to see if I could block everything else out.

It’s hot. But in two weeks, my hope is that I can muster something hotter. A thing more focused.

Kasper Coming For A Job In The Film "Too Many I's"

This afternoon my imagination went to a strange place. In the aforementioned film, “Too Many I’s” the main character is Kasper. He’s a neophyte worker bee, fresh out of school and has just been handed the almost unworkable temp work task of counting every letter in the Sunday New York Times. The way I wrote it, he took the strange challenge with genuine zeal and made a career of it.

Perhaps I should spend the next twelve days looking to my own work for inspiration.