Briefs from Monday

The tribute reading Monday, overall, was a great time. We had a crowd of about 75-80 people, a good receptive audience. Irene didn't feel up to attending, so we had to shuffle the program and reading order over dinner--several of us picked up an additional poem or short piece that we thought should be read, deciding on each person taking about 7-8 minutes of time. That was a really fascinating moment for me--no egos flared up, no one seemed anxious to take more time or angled for one of her show-stopper pieces. We just tossed out poems we individually loved, worked out an order and went with it.

Eight of us read from Irene's work and spoke briefly about her. Eight very different readings and emphases on why she matters to us and why her work does and should as well. It was sort of a rush for me because I got to read alongside friends and people whose work I admire but that I'd never heard read. During dinner I joked that it was like a covers album--and I was half-way nervous that I'd end up delivering the poetry equivalent of karaoke. As Monday afternoon went on I was a little nervous just for the fact that Brian was there and he'd never seen me read in public before. I got over that pretty quickly when it struck me I was reading someone else's work and that I should try, as much as possible, to make it sound like her or approximate the ways the work resounds in my head as I read it and not try to make them into "me" poems.

I chose two poems from Vivid Companion, "Ironweed," and "Full Moon: Sitting Up Late at My Father's Bedside." I had a sense (wrongly) that poems from her third book, Six O'Clock Mine Report, would be more prevalent than work from the other books. Actually, once we were done, her first book The Girl With the Stone in Her Lap and Vivid Companion were the most represented--shows what I know. Had I known, I might have picked a couple from Six O'Clock to read. The poems that were read from Six O'Clock are among the best (or maybe I'm biased because they are particular favorites of mine) and I'm glad that they were presented. Likewise, the prose pieces from Girl were a surprising choice--but I can see why they resonate.

If I were to complain about anything, it'd be the actual space itself. It's an interesting auditorium, but the very architecture of the space coupled with the sound system made it muddy and echoey for those of us on-stage to listen. I ended up reading along with several of the poems from Vivid and found myself fighting to make sense of what they were saying in places. It didn't seem to be an issue for the audience--or else Brian didn't tell me.

Other than all that, the only other moment that stands out fell after the reading. Brian and I ran outside for a quick smoke and to call a friend to see about having a drink later that evening. On the way back in I was stopped by a woman in a red t-shirt and khaki shorts who asked "How did you get picked to do this?"

This Is Just a Tribute

I'm becoming more and more excited about next Monday night and the tribute for Irene. I was nervous and feeling stupid about what I wanted to say and read, so I did a very un-me thing and I called her...basically to get a read on her reaction. We ended up talking over an hour about a little of everything: her neighbors, her new poems, my new poems, my need for a haircut, our anticpation for Monday.

A write up on Irene and for the event is here. I love the poem they reproduce in the article. It was on my shortlist of pieces to read. I opted for another poem from the same book. I'll try to transcribe the one I'm reading and get it online in the next few days.

A general website for the Festivall Charleston is here.

The hosting site's website is here. Frankly that's the most interesting link to me. It's a mix of Federalism and Egyptiana. If the auditorium is ANYTHING like the website I just might have to become a squatter. As soon as I flipped through the website I told Brian that this is one ocassion I must have the digicam for. Truly. It's exceptional.

Pumpgirl & Tossed Salad--Notes From AWP

Maybe it's because I was an AWP virgin before last week...maybe because I was sort of entranced by the idea of being in a huge group of people who (ostensibly) love writing and ideas and books...maybe because I had a week off...but I had a great time. I got to see expected friends, ran into a favorite friend from my grad school days totally unexpectedly, and got to meet people I only knew virtually--all of whom were gracious and sweet. All in all, win win win.

Brief bits:

Saw a brand-name poet in the Hilton Lobby my first night there and didn't throw up in my mouth, even a little.

There is nothing more startling than hearing your name shouted in the book fair, in a city hundreds of miles from your home, at 9 am on the first full day of the conference. In this case it was delightful. My friend Amy, whom I'd lost touch with ages ago was there. She's as sharp and funny as ever.

The Lynda Hull tribute was really beautiful. It ended with a video of her reading "Window" sometime in 1994. It's my favorite poem of hers and I started crying in the middle of it. Totally hooked me.

If anyone ever offers you a drink of a chinese liquor that's described as a "cross between rye and vodka," turn it down. Go for a Brooklyn Lager instead.

Francine Prose is fierce in person, I regret not making it to see her read.

The Pitt Reading was a blast...take that for what it's worth, since I'm biased. But Aaron and Jan Beatty were excellent.

I bought way too many books and lit mags.

Saw Gerald Stern wandering purposefully through the bookfair Sat. morning with a cell phone to his ear. This made me unutterably happy.

The Post-Identity Politics panel was a lot of fun, in no small part due to RS's shouting an obscenity.

Chase Twichell rocks my socks. Ditto for David Wojahn. I think I love them more for having heard them speak on their respective panels.

Best signage in NYC: at the deli across the street from the Hilton, a neon sign reading TOSSED SALAD (the BAR being unilluminated.) The banner for PUMPGIRL. Aaron got a picture of this. A close third is the deli sign for Fish Platters that we passed after lunch.

The only downside was developing a cold Saturday morning. No, really. That was it.

Waiting for the Man(uscript)

In Anne's post that I mentioned below (scroll down if you want...I'm too lazy to do the linky thing) she wondered if editors cleared off the desks and their submission business for the holidays. I've been wondering that too. Mainly because I'm obsessing about the last packets I sent out. Usually I'm fine for about the first six to eight weeks...then after that I start wondering. At 10 to 12 weeks I get slightly more neurotic et cetera et cetera.

A lot of this I attribute to the first time I sent out a bunch of poems while in grad school. We had to do it as part of our final portfolios for a creative writing class. The gist was this: choose three magazines you really admired and wanted your work in. Do up a cover letter and submission, making a copy to reserve for the instructor's comments later. This was 1996 or 1997. I can't remember two of the magazines that I chose for submitting, but the third was Colorado Review. I was in my Jori phase then.

About a month later I got my first rejection--a sort of fortune cookie rejection: skinny skinny strip of paper, wide as a letter sized sheet, but maybe 3/4" tall. Seriously. That means they could reject approximately 14.67 poets per page depending on margins. About two weeks after that I got my second. It was about the size of a postcard. No notes, no sign really that the entire thing had been touched by a human hand except to reinsert my stuff back into the SASE.

So the semester goes on, still nothing back from CR . My instructor was really pleased that I hadn't heard anything back by the end of the semester. I was the only person in the class at the point with work still being considered someplace. Blah blah blah...there were moments I was a little proud of that, but at the heart of it, I just wanted to know. The semester ends, I relocate back to WV. Later that summer I sent a query letter , it had been about seven months since I submitted, including a new SASE with my updated address and went back to my life. No response to the query. So I just wrote it off and went on with classes and drinking and dying my hair. My poems changed, my reading changed, I didn't think much about the whole thing, when almost a year later I got my last SASE back. With a hand-written letter. Over a page. Thanking me for my poems, apologizing for the length of time they held them and for ultimately not being able to fit them into the magazine. I had that letter tacked up above my writing area for a couple of years and moves, eventually losing it about 5 years ago. I've been wracking my brain trying to remember who the editor was that was kind enough to do that and I'm coming up blank.

Considering it was my first time at the rodeo, I feel sort of lucky--I got the entire range of editorial response. I've kept that in mind the last couple of years while submitting--not everyone's going to get it, or like it. Time and resources are at a premium. But I do keep track of how they choose to respond (or not.) I have yet to decide if the fortune cookie rejection slip is worse than just getting my poems shoved back in an envelope or not. But ultimately, that doesn't matter. I look at the poems and I send them out again.

Chapped

I've realized that I am less a generative sort of artist than one who just notices things and keeps track of them until I might use them. It explains a lot about how I keep tons of files that are little more than images that I arrange and rearrange until they please me. I've got about 20 pages of stuff that I think of as a long poem or sequence that is coming together faster and faster and faster, like albumen congealing in boiling water; eventually it's going to be a chapbook. And it's all due to one phrase that a friend of mine used...it's been in my head for weeks now...and it's the ordering principle--as soon as I heard the phrase I saw the possibilities. Now all I need to do is gin up the nerve to ask permission to use it.

Submission

I'm tossing this out to the greater blogosphere.

For those of you who go through the slush pile rigamarole as a route to publication, how do you pick and chose lit mags? It's tough to keep up with what's out there. I try to surf websites and snoop around before sending out packets--but I'm wondering if there's a better, centralized source?

Dos/Don'ts for Younger Poets

Via the fantublous Brent Goodman at the Brother Swimming Beneath Me this tag: four Dos and Don'ts for younger writers. If you're reading, consider yourself tagged.



DO



1. Read. Everything.

Not just poets you love, but those that leave you cold. Especially those that leave you cold. Figure out what it is you don't respond to in their work. Sometimes the easiest way to establish who you are is in relation to who you aren't. Aside from poetry--read everything. Learn about art, music, history, politics, the world, fiction, science. Regarding art--study other art forms, become conversant in their histories, trends and technical languages; learn how they intersect with literature, exploit those similarities. Read trash. Read literature. Just read.



2. Imitate.

Find writers you respond to and set aside time just to take apart their poems and imitate them. Look at how they open their poems and end them. Middles generally take care of themselves. Don't worry about not being innovative. You're learning here. No one started out a genius.



3. Work Every Day.

Devote part of every day to your poems. This doesn't mean, necessarily, generating new poems. But spend time with them. Jot down notes, lines, questions; think about what does and doesn't work. Tend to your work like any other daily task.



4. Persevere.

Keep at it. Don't stop. Find supportive people you admire and trust, share your work with them and take their comments and criticisms graciously. Become part of a writer's group or a local workshop if you can. If there isn't one, start one.



DON'T



1. Fixate on what others are doing.

Do your own thing. Don't get sucked into who gets published where, who wins what, who gets praise, etc etc etc. That way lies discouragement and madness.



2. Take Rejection Personally.

Sure, your work is an extension of you...you thought it up, you labored, you slaved, you want it out in the world. That doesn't mean that everyone is going to respond to your sonnet sequence the way you'd like. That's just the way of the world. Taste is subjective and a given reader on a given day might not respond strongly. That doesn't mean you're not talented; that your work's not good. It just means you haven't found the right place for it yet.



3. Be An Asshole.

Faith in your abilities is crucial...but don't become an overweening egomaniac. There are always better (and worse) writers out there. When faced with a misreading or a comment that you feel is off the mark, don't be defensive, don't be dismissive. Be gracious.

4. Expect Less of Yourself.

Push yourself to try new things: new subjects, new forms, new voices. Try to top yourself every time you write.